


Drowning is Too Late to Learn

by accioambition



Series: Drowning is Too Late to Learn [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Actually it's called trawling, Captain Swan Big Bang, Deadliest Catch, Fishing, Gen, I guess you could say it's also, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-12-18 17:08:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 70,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11879010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accioambition/pseuds/accioambition
Summary: Bouncing around with her son for the majority of her life, Emma Swan has told herself she's happy in the city. It's where the most camera operating jobs are, and that's how she makes her money. But when an old friend calls her and asks for her help on a new project in small town Maine, Emma finds herself in a place she's never been with people she doesn't know filming a profession she knows nothing about. But with the captain of the ship she's filming begins taking a keen interest in her and her life, she finds herself wondering whether she might just catch something other than fish. Deadliest Catch AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my contribution to this year's Big Bang! It's caused a lot of stress on my end, but I'm finally glad to have this out in the open. I've had this idea for years and FINALLY it's come to fruition.  
> Thank you a million times over to sotheylived for beta-ing this confusion and shipsxahoy and queen-icicle-fandom for creating wonderful art pieces that I'll hopefully be able to embed in here somewhere. Without further ado...

“No, Anna, you’ve got to – no, the other way.” Emma groans, waving her hand in front of her face, careful to miss the expensive camera equipment below it. The woman in front of her scoots five inches, bewildered face smoothly appearing on camera. “Yes, thank you, now you’re in frame.”

“Oh, your left, not mine.”

Emma sighs and straightens up. She can already feel the ache in her back forming. “Yes, Anna, my left.” Glancing over her shoulder, Emma nods solemnly at the director.

“Alright, let’s get this scene started,” he says. Emma backs away from the camera, slowly weaving her way around the rest of the crew. She’s done her job for now. It’s too early and there are sprinkled donuts and bearclaws on the catering table that call her name.

For something that seems like such a low budget gig, this YouTube series employs a surprising amount of people. She’s constantly impressed by it – the sheer number of familiar and unfamiliar faces she passes by in the hallways. Hell, they’re even big enough to have a catering table that asks for requests every once in awhile.

She’s worked for productions with much less.

From the moment Anna cheerfully walked up to her yesterday afternoon as she was packing up, asking for any requests, “because my sister’s sending some things from the bakery,” Emma knew today would be better than most. A bearclaw: the one love/hate relationship she enjoyed in her life.

She spots it 20 feet from the table. It’s got her name on it, literally – a note on blue paper has her name scrawled elegantly across it.

(Elsa really is the best thing about this whole series. God, she should just ask the girl out, that’s how much she likes her.)

The bearclaw hangs right before her mouth, the sugar nearly on her lips, when the devil chimes in, sounding suspiciously like her cellphone.

Groaning, she removes it from her back pocket, sparing a glance at the caller ID. Her interest piques when she reads the name scrawled across it.

“Jefferson?” she answers. “What’s wrong?”

“I call you for the first time in four years and you automatically assume something’s wrong?” the man from the other end asks, too dramatic for his own good.

“Yes,” she says shortly. “The last time you called me, you asked me – broke, mother-of-a-six-year-old me – to bail you out of jail and lend you enough money to pay back that casino you got caught in.” She pauses for effect, then adds, “And then asked me to drive you home.”

“Oh,” Jefferson says on an exhale. “I’d forgotten about that. How is Henry these days?”

Emma sighs, tucking her phone between her shoulder and ear so she can rest her hand on her hip. “Jeff, what do you want?” she asks. “I’m at work right now, they’re going to call me back any minute and I need to e-"

“That’s actually what I’m calling you about,” he interrupts her excitedly.

“What? Jeff, this series is wrapping up, they’re not hiring.”

“No, I’ve got an idea for a show and I’ve gotten the okay for a trial season.”

“What?” This time, her question expresses more disbelief than anything. “That’s great, Jefferson! What’s it about?”

“It’s reality, sort of adventurey,” he explains. “Trawling for lobster and seafood up at the Georges Bank in Maine. Imagine Ice Truckers but with boats.” Her friend goes quiet for so long that Emma takes her phone back in hand to make sure that the call hasn’t dropped. “And I want you to come and shoot it, if that wasn’t obvious already.”

Shaking her head, she mutters, “I don’t like how this sounds.”

“No, Emma, trust me,” Jeff reassures her. “This is gonna be great.”

She sighs, turning away from the food table reluctantly. “Jeff, I can’t just up and move in the blink of an eye, I’ve got Henry.”

Even in the slight din of the studio, Emma can hear her friend mimic her sigh. “I know,” he says resignedly. “I called up David Nolan. He’s in. He and the missus just married and were trying to find a nice place for them.” When she doesn’t immediately respond, Jeff sighs again. “Look, we wouldn’t start filming until after Fourth of July. That gives you a couple months.”

It could work. She wouldn’t have to worry about taking Henry out of school. This project should wrap up by the end of next week. She’d actually have time to find them somewhere nice to live unlike previous times where producers have expected her behind the camera by week’s end. And David – who acted like her big brother when they were in school, always texting her to make sure she got home in once piece – and his girlfriend, now wife apparently, Mary Margaret would be there. For once, they’d be moving to someplace where familiar faces await them.

This could actually work.

“When do you need an answer by?” she asks. Now that the wheels are turning in her head, the plausibility of the whole idea works. She’s got to check with Henry first. No big life decision like this can truly be set in stone until her son has his word.

“I’d like one now, if that’s possible,” Jefferson responds with a chuckle, “but I’ll need it by the end of next week at the latest.”

Nodding her head, Emma concedes. “I’ll get back to you by then, if not sooner.” She hesitates only for a moment before asking, “Everything else alright there, Jeff?”

(They were kind of close, back in the day. Met each other in their first film class, kept in touch and always were down to hold the camera or act in front of it for whatever project caused their headaches at the time.)

“Yeah, great, actually,” he answers. “Grace is doing well. She’s getting really good at math.”

Emma smiles. She recognizes the strength and pride in another parent’s voice. It’s a sentiment that often tinges her own. “She’s a great kid, Jeff. You should be proud of her.” She could go on for days, swapping stories of Henry’s successes and Grace’s troubles and vice versa. It’s been a long time since she’s had a conversation with a good friend of hers. All Emma wants is for this phone conversation to just devolve into a catch up session, but she hears her name from set. Rolling her eyes, she groans. “I’ve got to get back to work, Jeff, but I’ll let you know my answer as soon as I have one,” she says.

“Thanks, Em,” Jeff tells her softly. “Tell Henry Grace and I say hi.”

“Of course.” Her name bounces off the artificially lit walls again, louder and more agitated. She sighs, again. “Bye, Jeff. Take care of yourselves.”

“Always do.”

Ending the call, Emma looks from her darkened phone screen to the uneaten pastry. She looks at it forlornly for a moment before shoving it in her mouth with one hand and her phone in her back pocket with the other.

No such thing as free time in show business.

0000

Broaching the topic of moving – yet again, for what’s probably the third time in as many years – proves more difficult than Emma’s expecting. Jefferson’s offer is somewhat ideal: the opportunity to meet up with old friends, as well as provide her son a more stable environment to grow up in. Or, at least, finish growing up in.

She picks Henry up from school that afternoon and, like any good parent, takes him out to ice cream for dinner.

“Where are we going this time?” he asks, chocolate raspberry swirl dripping off the tip of his nose.

Stopping her tongue mid-lick on mint chocolate chip, Emma reels back. She’s stunned, to say the least.  “What do you mean?” she asks, lowering the cone in her hand to rest it on the table.

Her son sighs, his shoulders rolling forward just the slightest bit. “We only get ice cream for dinner when you’re trying to tell me we have to pack and move in record time.” Henry shrugs, nonchalant, and renews his attack on his ice cream. “So,” he says between licks, “where are we going now?”

“Nowhere, yet.” Recovering from her brief shock, she too returns to her dinner. “Jefferson called me earlier today and said he’s got a gig for me up in Maine.”

“Maine? Like next-to-Canada Maine?”

“The same one,” Emma chuckles. Her son’s always had such a way with words. “Also, he told me to tell you that he and Grace say hello.”

Henry makes a face, scrunching up his nose, and waves off the hellos like they’re a bug buzzing in his face. “Mom, do you realize how far away that is?” he asks.

“I know kid, but I think it’s got potential,” she reasons. “It’s for a TV show about the ocean and boats.”

That catches his attention. “Like pirate ships?” he asks excitedly, eyes wide and ice cream temporarily forgotten.

“No, like fishing boats,” she explains, leaning forward to wipe at some of the ice cream that’s melted down his chin. “Filming doesn’t start until after the Fourth of July, so you wouldn’t miss any school and you’d have some time to acclimate and find new friends before it starts up again. We can find a place we both like up there.” Settling back into her seat across from him, Emma sends him a small smile. “What do you think?”

She watches her son process the information, sees the cogs turning about in his head. He’s quiet for a minute, staring off into the space his ice cream occupies. Then Henry shrugs.

“I don’t know, Mom,” he says. “Doesn’t it get really cold up there?”

“Yeah, but think about it. We can find a house with a fireplace and when it snows, we can curl up and drink cocoa and marathon Star Wars until we can’t see straight.” At the mention of winter weather, she watches Henry’s eyes grow wide and glossy. She can tell he’s lost in his own active imagination.

And then the thought strikes her: “You’ve never seen snow before, have you?”

Henry shakes his head. “Maybe once in real life, but mostly on TV,” he admits sheepishly. And then, like kids tend to do, his tone does a 180. “We could build a snowman!”

“Exactly!” Emma shouts, nearly throwing her ice cream at her son in the process. There’s more of the dessert on the napkin around her cone than in it, but she quickly finishes it up before speaking again. “You don’t need to tell me what you think right now. Give it a couple days.”

“When do you need to tell Jefferson?” Henry asks, his tongue making a round about the edge of his cone, trying in vain to catch all of it before it falls on his hand.

“By the end of next week,” she answers. “So instead of daydreaming in class about the next Uncharted game, think about this instead, alright?”

“Okay.” Henry finishes up his ice cream, shoving the last bite into his mouth and sighing contently as he chews. Once he swallows, he matches her gaze. “Does this mean we’re going to have something else for dinner too?”

Emma laughs despite herself. “Are you still hungry, kid?”

“I am a growing boy, I need my nutrients,” he quips back.

As her laughter dying down, she shakes her head. “We can stop at McDonald’s or something on the way home.”

Stretching and closing his eyes, Henry says, “I was thinking more along the lines of pizza.”

“Oh yeah?” she chuckles.

“Yeah. A large half cheese, half pepperoni.” Opening his eyes again, he grins slyly when he says, “And then you can get whatever you want on your pizza.”

Emma laughs so hard that her stomach begins to hurt. Henry’s already on his way to the car, but she manages to catch up, grabbing him by the shoulders and ruffling his hair. He’s still small enough that when she pulls him into her side for a hug, he can’t resist her strength. But she can’t lift him anymore, can’t hold him when he’s tired and falls asleep in the backseat of the Bug.

It always strikes her how quickly her little boy is growing up. She just never seems to realize it. It feels like only yesterday she was taking her first steps as a free woman, a newborn cradled in her arms and no idea of where to go from there.

Ten years later, Henry’s growing taller, looking more and more like his father every day. It hurts her heart, being reminded of her first love every time she looks at her son and the long line of mistakes that gave her him, but then he sasses her back or crinkles his nose like she does and the aches are soothed.

Though he may look like his father, Henry is most definitely her son.

0000

When the TV’s off for the night and Henry’s sitting at the kitchen table scribbling out his book report, Emma scrolls through her phone on the hunt for a number. She’s sure she still has it somewhere in her contacts, it hasn’t been that long since they’ve talked.

Or has it?

With how close the three of them were back in her short college years, she assumes that she would have been invited to David and Mary Margaret’s wedding. They were as thick as thieves until she took the fall for an actual one and spent her second year of college in a jail cell instead of the library. But they came and visited her when time afforded it. Emma tried to call David at least once every couple of months just to make sure everything was okay for them.

But thinking about it now, with her and Henry moving much more often and the crazy shooting schedules she’s always forced to adhere to, Emma can’t remember the last time she actually spoke with David.

“Aha!” She finds his number under the name Darlingest Charmsicle, the name she and another friend came up with when Mary Margaret first called David her “Prince Charming.” Before she can second guess herself, Emma presses the green call button and brings the phone up to her ear.

It rings and rings, and with each passing tone, she contemplates hanging up altogether. How long has it been since she talked to David? The longer she considers it, the more she wishes that the ringing would just end in an automated voicemail.

Alas, she’s never been that lucky in her life, for just as she senses the voicemail robot about to pick up, the man himself finally answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi David. It’s me,” she says meekly. Emma then starts to clarify. It’s not like she calls him every day. “It’s-”

“Emma,” he interrupts her happily. “God, how are you? How’s Henry? Is everything okay?”

The relief that floods her body is welcome, even if she didn’t realize how tense she was. “Yeah, everything’s fine with us. We’re down in Phoenix while I finish up a YouTube series.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“How about you guys?” she asks suggestively, settling her hip against the kitchen counter. “Heard through the grapevine that congratulations are in order?”

David chuckles. “Thank you. It was small, just us at the courthouse and family. Mary Margaret wanted to save some money and have a huge party instead without the trouble of an actual ceremony.” He sighs contently. “We got back from our honeymoon last week.”

“And how is marital bliss treating you two?”

“Perfectly.” And with that earnest sense of genuity he always manages to embody, David says, “She’s the love of my life and now I get to call her my wife.”

She can’t help the scoff that falls from her lips. He was always like this, even before he and Mary Margaret officially started dating. He just spewed chivalry helplessly and, just as uncontrollably, she always teased him back.

(Emma may not know how much time has passed since they’ve spoken, but falling back into old conversation habits makes her heart warm.)

“Aww, David, that’s so sweet, it makes me want to puke.”

“Ha, c’mon, you can’t expect me to say anything different.” They both laugh, and once they calm themselves, David asks, “So what has you calling me this late at night after so long?”

“Right, time zone, I forgot you two were on East Coast time.” She mentally scolds herself. Now she understands why he sounded a bit worried at the onset. It’s got to be close to 11 p.m. for him, and no good call comes that late at night.

“It’s fine, really,” he reassures her, “it’s not that late and we’re probably going to be up late anyways.”

Grimacing, and even physically recoiling, Emma mutters, “Gross.”

David sighs on the other end of the line. She can imagine him rubbing his forehead out of frustration. “Mary Margaret’s grading and I’ve got some pictures to edit.”

“Oh.” To be fair, she hadn’t explicitly been thinking about her friends crawling into bed together to dance the horizontal tango. Then again, what else do newlyweds do late at night?

Shaking her head to rid her mind of the image, she changes the subject to the real reason she dug so far into her contacts. “Well, Jefferson called me the other day.”

“Did he recruit you for the Maine trawling project?” he asks.

“Tried to. I still haven’t given him an answer yet.”

“I think it’s going to be fun,” David says. “I did a little bit of research on the town he wants to focus on and it’s…” He goes quiet before finding the word he wants: “Quaint.”

When he doesn’t explain further, she prompts him. “Meaning?”

“Small,” he says. “Real small. Everybody-knows-the-dirt-on-everybody small.”

“Oh,” she says softly. That could be both a blessing and a curse, given what’s happened to her in her life. She’s got secrets, just like everyone else, which could either stay excellently hidden or come out in a flash if the town’s anything like she’s imagining. The former would be her choice, but with all these strangers digging for information on the new folks in town…that latter one could be detrimental not only for her, but for Henry.

“It’s got its own harbor and a nice forest just outside of town,” David continues, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “We think it’d be a great place to raise a family. We’ve been in the city so long that we both kind of forget what it’s like to live like that.”

“Huh.” It’s all she can really say while processing her friend’s reasoning.

Seems solid enough.

“What’s keeping you from deciding, Emma?” David inquires. “Henry?”

She’s shaking her head before she realizes that his voice comes from the phone at her ear and not a physical being in front of her. “I told him about it and he didn’t say no off the bat, but…” Tongue poking out between her lips, she clucks at herself. “I feel bad. I’ve uprooted him too much in his life. I don’t want him to have to wait until college to make real friends.” And when she gets to the root of her problem, it hits her ton of bricks.

“I don’t want him to feel alone like I did,” she whispers.

“I’m sure he doesn’t, Emma.” Like it always was, David’s voice is calming. It keeps her from trying to strangle herself, her arm wrapping tightly around her waist. “He’s got you. And if you come out here, he’ll have us and Jefferson and Grace and the rest of the kids in town.” He pauses and she can’t tell if he’s trying to think of other benefits of this town or he’s run out of things completely. “If Henry says yes, then would you come?”

“Probably.” Emma shrugs and sighs. “I just want him to be happy, David.”

“I know, but don’t forget about your happiness as well,” he advises. That’s what he does: David always put things into perspective for her. “Look, I’ve gotta go, Emma. My wife is calling for me.”

Shuddering, Emma pushes off the counter and slowly makes her way back to Henry and his homework. “Ew, ew, I don’t want to know,” she mumbles. Then, more genuinely, she adds, “I’m glad you guys finally tied the knot. Tell Mary Margaret I say hi.”

“No problem. Good luck with the decision. Call me when you’ve made up your mind.”

“Okay. And David?” Emma hesitates to put her emotions into words, but if she doesn’t acknowledge the elephant on the line, she won’t be able to sleep soundly until she settles it. “Sorry I haven’t called in a while.”

She really is. It’s her fault, much like a lot of other things in her life, that they’ve gone so long without talking. Those first couple of weeks, maybe even months, after his graduation, David had tried to call her. Had called her maybe once a week, if not more. But the more time she spent with Henry, traveling around and looking for jobs to make ends meet, the less he tried to call until finally, one day, the calls stopped all together.  

“Nothing to apologize for. I’m just glad you finally did.”

“Me too,” she says with a small smile.

“Goodnight,” David bids her.

“Night.”

Her conversation leaves her in a weird state of content and confused. David has a point in everything he said. But then again, she’s been on the move – or may be more accurately, on the run – for so long that even attempting to settle down would harm more than help her.

She ponders her friend’s words for another silent moment before clapping her hands and approaching Henry. The apartment has only grown darker while she spoke with David, so now the kitchen light dangling above her son is a spotlight on his apparent struggle.

“So how goes the homework?” she asks.

Henry leans forward and taps his head against the table before lolling it back to look at her upside down. “My brain is fried, I’m dying, all the blood is going to my stomach,” he groans. Throwing an arm haphazardly in the air, he has the gall to scold her. “See, this is what you get when you feed your son ice cream for dinner.”

“Uh, no,” she laughs aloud. “This is what you get when you claim an entire large pizza for yourself.” Gently, Emma pushes his head back up and sits down next to him. She peers over at the journal before him, half written thoughts on the lines and little doodles in the margins. “C’mon, this looks like a good start. Talk to me. Talk me through it.”

As Henry begins explaining the prompt, she tries – really tries – to focus on it. She wants to help her son with his report, but David’s words and Jeff’s offer still simmer in the back of her mind.

Seems like Henry isn’t the only one who can’t mold his thoughts into coherent ideas tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for the wonderful and encouraging words in response to the first chapter! Honestly, the amount of messages and tag screaming I received made me so happy. I cannot express how much I appreciated every single comment. I can only hope that I do the story and you guys justice. :)  
> I forgot to mention last time that I'll be updating this every Tuesday and Friday well into sweater weather season.  
> Another huge thank you to sotheylived for beta-ing and shipsxahoy and queen-icicle-fandom for the lovely accompanying art. You guys are the best!

With the weekend behind them, Emma at least has work to keep her mind off of the impending future: Jefferson’s offer, David’s advice, the possibility of moving. This series she’s working on, it’s alright. The cast is sweet – especially Anna, who’s too bubbly for her own good and exactly what casting was looking for in their main character. But it’s minimal work for her. They’re filming on a fucking camcorder approximately four years past ancient.

But it’s a gig. For such a shitty set up, it’s not all that shitty. The pay is good, the food is better, and she gets the weekends off to hang out with her son.

Her traitorous mind thinks of the possibilities. Maybe it would be good to sort of…settle. Good for Henry – he could make better friends if they have to stay in town for a set amount of months instead of moving wherever they’re filming. He could focus better in school, maybe join a sports team.

And her. It could be good for her. She knows Mary Margaret and David and Jefferson, so she wouldn’t have to worry about making friends or having people to watch Henry if something urgent comes up. She’d have a job already set up that has the potential to go on for years. And it’d be an adventure: she’s never so much as been on a boat, let alone know how it works.

“Doesn’t seem like a good idea, actually,” she mumbles to herself as she fixes the camera minutely, trying to adjust for Anna’s subtle shift in positioning. 

“What was that?” the director asks her. “Is something wrong?”

“Nope,” Emma quickly answers, standing up and backing away. “Everything’s fine, just talking to myself.”

She can’t come to a decision by the end of the week, something particularly unusual. Even since Henry was born, Emma’s been more of a shoot first, ask questions later sort of person. It’s how she survived and sort of thrived growing up in the foster system. But something about this opportunity – the time, the people involved, everything – gives her pause.

Unsurprisingly, it’s her son that makes her decision for her. Saturday morning is rainy and ugly. The perfect kind of day for catching up on the movies they both managed to miss in theaters. 

Instead of connecting her laptop to the TV, Henry sits down next to her with the laptop in hand. 

“I’ve got so many questions,” she says sarcastically. “One, what are you doing with my laptop and, two, why aren’t Kate McKinnon and Leslie Jones on my TV right now?”

“ _Ghostbusters_ can wait, mom,” Henry huffs. “This is more important **.** ” He presses a couple of keys on the laptop and shifts around on the couch so that the computer screen is completely hidden from her. For a moment, Henry sits there and looks at her, as if he’s gauging her reaction to news she hasn’t heard yet.

Then he inhales deeply. “I found us a house.”

She’s flabbergasted. “What?”

He turns the laptop so she can see the screen properly. “A house,” he repeats himself. “In Storybrooke. For when we go there.”

Taking a look at what the kid’s pulled up on the screen, Emma’s jaw drops even further. “Kid, I haven’t even accepted the job yet.”

The screen shrinks from her view as Henry sets the computer back on his lap and scoots away. “Why not?” he asks.

“Partially because you hadn’t said anything.”

Henry shrugs, his focus turning to the house on the screen before him. “It’ll be an adventure.”

“But won’t you miss your friends here?” Emma inquires.

“Mom, I’ll make new friends,” he reasons, flopping onto the couch cushion behind him. “I think it would be really good for us. Plus I could finally see snow.”

That makes her chuckle, reaching forward to pinch his knee so it jerks. “Is that what this is all about? **” s** he asks him. When he doesn’t immediately answer and she spots his bashful look, Emma sighs. **“** Henry, all you had to do was ask and we could’ve driven up to Denver or something and gone skiing.”

Henry mumbles something unintelligible, wiggling away from her so that she doesn’t pinch his knee again. When he’s got his back to the opposite end of the couch, he shoots her with a withering look. 

“Take the job, mom. Stop looking for a reason to run from it **.”**

It’s moments like these where Emma can’t help but grin. If she had any doubt as to who’s child this was, it’s accusations and truths as he’s just said that remind her Henry is hers. He knows her so well because, beneath it all, that is exactly why she hasn’t answered Jefferson’s offer yet.

(And she did have concerns about the kid, that wasn’t a lie. She is a mother, at the end of the day.)

“Then look at the house,” Henry continues.  **“** It’s got a fireplace and an upstairs and it’s pretty close to the water.”

“Really?” she asks. Following her son’s finger, Emma spots the little map. It’s got a green pop-up that represents the house and, just as Henry said, three streets over is water. “I bet you can see the ocean from the top floor.”

“Dibs!” he shouts in her ear.

“What are you dibs-ing?”

“I call dibs on a bedroom with a view of the ocean.”

“Um, I’m the parent here, I get first dibs on everything.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Yes it is, you’ll understand when you’re older.” Emma exhales noisily, letting out a little moan along with it. She lets her head loll back on the couch and stares at the ceiling in contemplation. **“** So we’re really doing this?”

Henry grabs the phone and hands it to her. “Operation Pirate is a go.”

With a resigned sigh, she dials Jefferson. “Can’t you come up with a different name?” she asks as she searches for Jefferson’s number. “You know I’m not going to be following Jack Sparrow or Long John Silver or anything like that.”

Henry shrugs. “Operation Go Fish doesn’t have as nice a ring to it.”

Mimicking his shrug, Emma mumbles, “Fair” before the phone connection goes through and she’s greeted with, “Hello, Emma Swan” from the other side.

“Hello Jefferson.” She winces a little because her voice sounds stern even to her own ears. “Um, I’m calling to-”

“Now wait,” Jefferson interrupts her swiftly **. “** Should I be sitting down? Do I need a box of Kleenex? Grace!” he yells. “Can you find your papa some Kleenex?”

“What are you talking about, Jeff?”

“I’m assuming you’re calling to let me down gently **,** ” he says matter-of-factly.

Emma chuckles. “No, I was calling to accept.”

“Really?”

“Yeah **,** ” she repeats herself. “I mean, unless you want someone else.”

“No, Em, this is going to be delightful! **”** Hearing how happy her old friend is on the other end of the line makes her smile. Jefferson’s always been a bit eccentric - a little crazy more often than not - and thus is always at one extreme end of the reaction spectrum. At least this time around, it’s the positive side. **“** So do you think you can get up here by the last week of June? Little prep time, get to know the ship, et cetera, et cetera.”

Emma gives Henry a thumbs up. “I think I can manage that.”

“Amaaazing,” Jefferson sings. “We’ve already got a place up there we’re moving to in three weeks, so we’ll be on site if you’ve got any concerns. We can look for places for you two.”

Sending a sly eye across the couch to her son, she says, “Actually, Henry’s already on that mission.”

Jefferson chuckles. “What a forward-thinking son you’ve got there,” he says **.** “Wonderful. You know how to reach me if something comes up. I’m working with the network on contracts and salaries and such, but we can figure out the nitty-gritty in person.”

“Yeah, that’s totally fine. So long as I’m getting paid.”

“Of course. I’m working for something in the almost exorbitant range.”

“As long as I can keep my kid alive, I’m fine with whatever.”

“Great **.”** There’s a bit of a lull in the conversation before Jefferson, a tad more serious than she’s used to hearing him, assures her. **“** This is going to be great, Em. Don’t have any doubts.”

“I don’t have any yet **.”** Henry starts waving erratically at her, causing her to roll her eyes. “The kid’s having a stroke or something trying to get my attention, so I’ll call you if I have any trouble.”

“Awesome. Goodbye, Emma Swan.”

“Bye Jeff.”

“Bye Jefferson, bye Grace!” Henry shouts before Emma hangs up with a sigh.

Rolling her shoulders back, Emma prepares herself for her son’s enthusiasm. Where he got so much of it, she’ll never know. “Alright, kid, so what have you got for me?”

“You’re gonna love it,” he says, flicking through the pictures.

Her first thought is, “It’s a house,” which she shares aloud.

She hasn’t lived in a house in years. They’re too expensive for her paycheck, too big for just her and Henry, and too permanent for her lifestyle and history. Since he’s been born, it’s been apartment after apartment with an occasional loft thrown in to change things up a little. And it’s worked well.

But, Emma supposes, now that Henry’s growing up and getting older, it makes sense for him to experience that white picket fence life.

“That’s what I said,” he sassily responds. At her raised brow, Henry exhales and gestures toward the computer screen. “I looked for apartments. They don’t really have anything good for us, but they’ve got a bunch of houses.” He clicks through a couple of the pictures and Emma gets a general idea of what the place looks like. Henry stops at one picture in particular that shows what looks like a living room. “Look, a fireplace.”

All Emma can see is the enormous number to buy - not even rent,  _ buy _ , you’ve got to  _ buy _ the place - the place. It’s got too many high numbers for her liking. “It’s a bit too expensive, Henry,” she tells him gently. “But we can call the realtor and see if they’ve got something else like this place.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see her son’s shoulders fall a little. “Okay,” he mumbles dejectedly. And then he’s clicking around on the laptop again, another picture of another house popping up on the screen. “But what about this one?” he asks, excitement in his voice once more. 

_ Ghostbusters _ forgotten, they spend the rest of the morning and a majority of the afternoon looking at houses, finding them on Google Maps, and casually creeping on the town Emma hopes might provide a little bit of home. David wasn’t lying when he said the town was small: Storybrooke had to be less than an eighth the size of Phoenix. One hotel, a diner, an ice cream place, a handful of shops. Two bars, so that counts for something in Emma’s book, not that she would have much time between Henry and filming.

It looks very quaint. Very small town America. And, frankly, she’s kind of afraid. It’s been a decade since she lived somewhere where she knew her neighbors and could chat with whoever she ran into at the grocery store. Smiles on the street and a sense of belonging and community instead of anonymity. That’s what she needed when she had Henry: a way to blend into the crowd to shield herself and her son from any sort of judgment.

“What do you think, Mom?”

“I think it’s gonna be interesting,” she says softly. “Different.”

“Different in a good way or not?”

She shrugs. “Guess we’ll have to see when we get there, right?”

She thinks that’s the end of the conversation – that they’re both sort of jumping into the deep end without much thought – until she’s vacuuming Henry’s room on one of her odd days off and finds a countdown on his bedside table. The number is in the mid-30s on that day and when she flips to the final day, she finds more colors and what looks like balloons. In her son’s script, Emma reads  _ Moving to Storybrooke tomorrow! _

The thought of confronting Henry crosses her mind, but the kid’s really excited about this. Surprisingly so. And sensing his enthusiasm makes Emma herself a little more excited about their upcoming adventure. They’ll road trip cross-country to Maine and settle into something a little different than they’re both used to these days.

The whole ordeal of packing is both stressful and calming. Once she settles into the process – taping boxes, filling boxes, labeling boxes, stacking the boxes away – Emma’s brain goes blank. She’s done this so many times before, it’s old hat. When Henry was younger, she’d wrap him in a scarf she’d found and cradle him against her chest, or sit him down with a toy train.

Now, though, they make a game of it, or at least try to. He’s only ten, so his attention span isn’t all too long, but when he does help her out, they shoot objects into the box like a basketball hoop.

(Emma doesn’t bother to fight the fact that she goes through afterwards, once Henry’s lost interest or gone off to do his homework, and reorganizes every box. Over the years, they’ve accumulated much more than she’d ever thought, but she’s still wary and tries to pack it all into as few boxes as humanly possible.)

They still don’t have a place to put all their belongings once they get to Storybrooke. Despite a call to the two realtors in town, Emma’s yet to find a place that Henry likes within her price range. She appreciates that her son has a specific idea of what he wants in his life, but a camerawoman’s salary just does not cover a stone fireplace, a wraparound porch, and a view of the harbor, even if Jefferson’s promised raise turns out. It just doesn’t. 

But she’s doing her best, fielding Skype tours early in the morning and spending time after dinner perusing the web. She even calls on Mary Margaret to visit the final contenders in person, just so she can get a feel for it from someone she trusts.

(That leads to late night phone calls catching up and she really,  _ really _ has missed her closest friend. She didn’t realize how much until the second time it happened, when Mary Margaret brought up an old joke from college that Emma had forgotten about.

It’s been a long time since she laughed so hard she cried.)

The boxes are piling up in a corner of their apartment. Emma’s already locked into a promise to sign a contract with a television network: they’re moving to Maine. They just don’t have a place to live for the time being, despite their hard efforts. 

That is, until one afternoon, while she’s packing away temporarily useless kitchen utensils and Henry’s checking what books are available at the library today. 

“Mom, this is the house,” Henry tells her. “This is it.”

Her brows furrow as she sets the potato masher on the counter to come sit next to him, getting a perfect view of the screen. Instead of the local library’s portal, he’s on a real estate site. The house he’s talking about is the first house he showed her a couple weeks ago, the one with the fireplace by the water. With a sigh, Emma tries to be gentle with her reminder. “We already looked at that house, kid, and I told you-”

“That it was expensive, I know, **”** he interrupts her. “But look at it now.” 

At first, she glances at the computer screen just to appease her son. But, on second look, Emma sees what he’s referring to: the price has gone down significantly, to just within their price range. 

“W-what? **”** she stutters. **“** How?”

Henry’s got this shy smile he’s trying to hide, the expression he always wears when he’s about to tell her something he’s done but knows he shouldn’t have. “I called the realtor of that house to talk to her and she told me that David and Mary Margaret live in the house next door,” he explains. “So she called them up and talked to them and realized she knew Mary Margaret and brought the price down.”

“What?”

Henry shrugs. She supposes that could make some semblance of sense - Henry relating their financial situation to the realtor, and then the realtor called the Nolans as a reference check. It’s possible Mary Margaret posed as another potential buyer. It could be possible. Improbable, but possible. 

Mary Margaret would say it was a sign. You’re supposed to be in this house at this point in life, something like that. And Emma can’t say she wouldn’t agree. The cards seemed to be falling in just the right way. 

“I really like this place, Mom **,** ” Henry says, interrupting her thoughts. Gesturing toward the screen again, he adds, **“** And at this rate, it would be rude not to live there, after what Ms. Shoemaker did.”

Loathe though she is to admit it, the kid’s got a point. The realtor, Ms. Shoemaker, obviously wants this house off her hands if she’s willing to lower the price that much just for them to live there. And, Emma reasons, she would feel a little bad for putting the woman through all that trouble just to decide no.

And the house is really nice. A  _ house _ .

Emma glares at her son, scolding him with a stern finger to his nose. “You’re manipulative, you know that, right?”

Henry whoops in excitement, jumping off his chair and throwing his arms up in celebration. “Fireplaces and snowmen!” he shouts. Returning to her side, he hugs her tightly as she laughs. **“** And when Christmas comes, we can get a real tree!”

Gently pushing him away, Emma goes back to her task of sorting the utensils. “All right, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ve still got to pack all this stuff up.”

“But Moooom,” her son complains loudly. “A house. We’ve only lived in apartments.” Henry tugs at the hem of her shirt. “C’mon, Mom, let’s celebrate a little bit. We can pack some more tomorrow.”

(It  _ is _ a really big thing, he’s got a point. Buying a house is a really adult thing.)

(The voice of reason in the back of her head reminds her that she’s  _ only _ decided to buy a house. She’s still got to call up Ms. Shoemaker to accept her offer. Well, she should probably check her bank account first, and then she’ll probably have to apply for some sort of loan or something.)

(But she’s going to buy a house. White picket fence and all.)

Setting down the slotted spoon in her hand with a reluctant sigh, Emma turns to Henry. “How about some ice cream?” she suggests.

Her son’s bright smile in response reminds her why Emma does anything in the first place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello!  
> You might have noticed that the rating has risen. After some guidance from the CSBB mods, I aired on the side of caution. So maybe this gives you a little bit of incentive to see exactly why it's gone up. But it won't happen for a little while still. You know, after Killian shows up.  
> Once more, a huge massive thank you to sotheylived for betaing this mess of words and shipsxahoy and queen-icicle-fandom for not only reading through the whole thing but making great art to it. I'm still amazed.

They make it into a road trip, not that they have any other choice. It’s not like she can afford to ship all of their stuff across the country, especially after the down payment she had to make on the house.

(To be fair, if she were to have a dream house, this would be as close as she could get to it. Slightly Victorian, three bedrooms, a view. It really is something else.)

She rents a U-Haul and they load as much furniture and as many boxes as they can into it on a Thursday night right after Henry graduates the fifth grade. 

(Even on her deathbed, she will not admit to tearing up at that silly ceremony. He’s moving to middle school, not leaving the house and going to college.

Still, he’s her little boy and he’s growing up far too fast for her liking.)

It takes a lot of time and strength – especially the couch and their mattresses, she has Henry run to their neighbors and ask for their help – but the truck is full and her trusty Bug is hooked to the hitch, all ready for them to set off in the morning.

“How long is it going to take us?” Henry asks that night as they sit on the floor of their empty living room eating pizza.

She shrugs. “Probably closer to a week than not,” she tells him in between bites. “Depends on how much driving we do in a day.”

“You mean you do **,** ” he quips back.

Emma makes a scrunchy face of displeasure. “I expect you to entertain me. No falling asleep for the entire ride.” 

Smug smirk intact, Henry chomps on the last bit of his slice. “I promise nothing **.”**

They both sit in silence for a while, digesting and contemplating their next step in life together. At least on Emma’s part, memories of what’s occurred in this apartment flitter across her mind. Frequently stubbing her toe on that doorjamb, Henry sticking seasonal jellies on that window for the world below to see.

It’s not much, but it’s been a psuedo-home for them.

Henry breaks the quiet by standing up to stretch. “Can we stop at some famous places?” he asks.

Standing up beside him, careful not to spill any of her leftover crumbs on the sleeping bag they’ll sleep in tonight, Emma says, “That’s up to you. You’re going to be my navigator.”

His eyes go wide and he utters _yes_ under his breath. “Perfect for Operation Pirate!”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” she says through her last bite of pizza. Brushing her hands off, she nudges him toward the sleeping bag that awaits him in what used to be his bedroom. “You’re going to have to get a good night’s sleep to be worthy of my first mate tomorrow.”

(Although how she’ll sleep tonight as the captain of their vessel is up for debate.)

(She’s not going to sleep well at all.)

But still, Emma is taking one last walk through the apartment as the first rays of that hot Arizona sun hit her for the last time. She’s got hot chocolate in one hand and her phone in the other, watching for a reasonable time to wake up Henry and savoring these last moments alone.

And then it’s on the road. Phoenix to Albuquerque, Tulsa to Cincinnati, a brief hop around (and maybe illegally over, whoops) the border at Niagara Falls. It takes them about ten days, with all the stopping Henry has her doing, but it’s well worth it. When else are they going to road trip across the country like this?

When she pulls off the highway exit marked Storybrooke, Emma finally understands what David and Jefferson meant. Not even five minutes’ drive from the highway and they’re surrounded by trees. A couple more minutes and Emma watches as a sign welcoming them to town rolls past the passenger window.

It really is small. Smaller than she thought it would be, but somehow also larger. 

(To be fair, she had no idea what she was expecting. She just knew that it wasn’t anything like Phoenix.)

There’s one stoplight at the entrance of town, flashing yellow. There’s the diner, a B&B, what looks like a handful of mom and pop shops. Absentmindedly, Emma wonders where these people get their groceries because Storybrooke doesn’t seem like the sort of place to house a Winn Dixie or a Giant.

She turns right at the next intersection, heading closer to the water. Her foot lets off the gas and the car slows to a crawl as Emma peers at the numbers adorning each house and mailbox.

The house looks just like the pictures, maybe better. The sun is setting behind it when she pushes the gearshift into park on the street. Surprising no one, Henry is conked out, his head leaning up against the window with his jacket balled up in the space between his head and shoulder.

Turning the truck off, Emma’s careful to be quiet getting out. She doesn’t want to wake Henry, number one, but number two, she wants some time to explore her new digs on her own.

The gate squeaks a little bit as she pushes it open. The third step up to the front door creaks when she puts her weight on it. Ms. Shoemaker told her she’d put a key beneath the welcome mat, and when Emma squats down, she finds the key in the exact middle of the dusty outline. Carefully, she inserts the key into the lock, turns it, and gently opens the door.

She’s got a house. A real bonafide house with a fence and a porch and a fucking welcome mat.

For a moment, she allows silent tears to roll down her cheeks, her hand over her mouth to hold sobs in. As a kid, this is all she really wanted: a place to plant roots, somewhere to look forward to coming back to at the end of the day. She had it for a little bit before Neal and now it’s come back to her somehow.

Right now, Storybrooke feels like the right decision.

After wiping her face and cleaning herself up a bit, Emma heads back to the truck and, this time, she doesn’t hesitate slamming doors and talking to herself. Henry’s got to wake up, which he does with a start when she sneezes while grabbing her purse. 

“Are we here?” he asks slowly, stumbling over his words and rubbing his eyes.

“Yeah,” she replies quietly. She nods toward the house behind him as she adds, “The house is unlocked if you want to go look at it, but I thought we’d just call it a night.”

His jaw cracks with a yawn. “Good idea,” Henry grumbles, “Which one’s David and Mary Margaret’s?”

“To the right **.** ” Probably. She’s kind of focused on going through her purse to make sure nothing fell out in between pit stops, but even then, when she hears the passenger door groan open, Emma instinctively tells him,  **“** Be polite and knock on the front door. They know we’re coming.”

“Okay.” Emma hears him fumbling around and grabbing his backpack from his foot space before the passenger door slams shut behind him.

She follows suit, finding everything in her purse in its proper place for once, and closes the driver’s door. She inhales deeply, soaking in those last sweet rays of midsummer sun. It had been staring her in the face all day, burning her eyes more often than not, but after a long day of driving, it’s relaxing.

Still, all Emma wants is some food, a shower, and sleep. Lots of it.

Thankfully, living next door to friends makes that easy. 

Emma’s pulling her and Henry’s bags from the Bug when she first hears the squeals. She barely has time to turn around before arms wrap around her shoulders and pull her into a tight hug. 

“You made it!” Mary Margaret says in her ear, moving them back and forth. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

Chuckling, Emma drops the bag she’s holding and returns the embrace. “I texted you when we were in Portland.”

“I know, but you’ve been driving for days, so I know it’s probably been tough.” With a contented sigh, Mary Margaret releases her from her grasp and pulls back to observe her. Even when they barely knew each other, Emma always felt like the other woman eyed her up and down like a mother would: made sure her clothes were clean and sturdy, her hair washed, her stomach satisfied. “Are you guys hungry? Do you want to start unpacking?”

“I don’t know about the kid, but I could use some food and a shower.”

Fully embracing that mothering nature of hers, Mary Margaret picks up Henry’s bag and begins to usher her up and into her home. “David’s just finishing up the spare room. I hope Henry doesn’t mind sleeping on a hideaway in the office.”

“He’s ten, his back will recover from it if necessary,” Emma says with a laugh. She heaves her own bag over her shoulder and takes a step away from Mary Margaret to head back to her house **.** “I’ve got to lock the place back up, but I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that **.”** The way her friend waves off the idea of safety - although there isn’t anything _in_ the house right now, Emma still doesn’t want people going into it uninvited - appalls her. Mary Margaret glances back at her once she reaches the gate and shakes her head good naturedly. “People in town don’t really do that, especially for buildings they know aren’t lived in.” 

Cautiously following her, Emma narrows her eyes. “Do people know that we’re going to live there?”

Mary Margaret nods. “They know someone is. Not you specifically,” she clarifies. She looks back at Emma again, at her raised brows and general air of confusion about her. Mary Margaret shrugs. “It’s a small town.”

“No kidding **,** ” Emma scoffs under her breath.

Opening the front door, Emma is hit with the overwhelming sense of comfort. Before she even takes a complete step into the house, she can smell something delicious wafting out the door. It’s vaguely reminiscent of late night study sessions at the 24-hour diner near campus, of rocking Henry to sleep in his bucket carseat while trying to catch up on what she missed while incarcerated. It’s comforting and a little bit stressing, but overall relaxes Emma.

Actually making her way into the house, she spots the blanket she used to wrap herself in on the few occasions she hung out at Mary Margaret’s over the back of the couch. She recognizes a picture hanging on the wall in the entryway: it’s a picture of David grinning wide at a laughing baby Henry, her son’s eyes squinted closed in pure joy. She remembers taking that picture, one evening while the two of them tried to study for a test. Henry had been crying since they sat down, keeping them from doing anything, and didn’t stop until David picked him up and started making funny faces. 

It’s comforting. It’s home. Not hers - her new home is approximately 150 feet to the left - but what she felt was home for the first time in that big city all on her own.

Her moment of reverie comes to a halt when David comes clunking down the stairs to her right. She looks up, smile already across her face in preparation for seeing the man who’s the closest thing she has to a brother in her life.

“Emma!” He wraps her up in a warm hug before he even reaches the bottom step. “Glad to see you made it across the country in one piece.”

“Yeah, there were some close calls there,” she jokes. Nodding toward the second level, she asks, **“** Where’s Henry?”

“He’s upstairs in the office settling in.”

“Did he ask you for the wifi password?”

“No, but I gave it to him anyways. **”** David claps her on the back and ushers her toward the kitchen, wrapping his arm around her shoulder as she wraps hers around his waist. “That’s how kids function these days, if Mary Margaret’s to be believed.”

“I’ve got it on good authority,” Mary Margaret interjects, carefully pouring a pot of pasta into a colander in the sink. When the steam clears, she busies herself with checking the sauce on the stove and dressing the salad next to the sink.

She’s so domestic, Emma thinks, settling nicely into the role of Mrs. Nolan. The way that David leaves her side to gather silverware and set up the table without so much as a question shows he’s acclimated to the husband title quite as well.

(She’s happy for them, she really is, but it  _ is _ a little bit sickening in the way that watching puppies and babies play for too long is nauseating.)

“So dinner’s nothing too fancy, but there’s a lot of it, so we should all have enough for tonight and then I can send you back with leftovers.”

“Oh, **”** Emma comments, caught off-guard by her friend’s thoughtfulness. **“** Thanks Mary Margaret.”

She slides the pasta into a serving bowl with a smile in her direction. “That’s what I’m here for.” With the pot of sauce in one hand and a ladle in the other, Mary Margaret points between her and her husband. “We’re here for,” she corrects herself. “Really though. Especially as you guys are getting accustomed to the place and the job. If you need me to watch Henry, that’s fine. I’ll be working at the summer camp soon, but he can come with me.”

All Emma can do is nod and mutter, “Thanks.”

David sneaks up behind her and surprises her with a brotherly kiss to her temple. Emma, unable to help herself, giggles. “And we’ll help you out tomorrow with moving things in **,** ” he offers, walking past her to press a sweet kiss to Mary Margaret’s cheek before taking the salad bowl she’s holding.

Emma sighs in relief. “Great. Henry’s strong for his age, but moving that couch by myself was horrible.”

David laughs as he sets the bowl on the dinner table. “I can’t possibly understand why.”

**“** Are we ready to eat?” Mary Margaret asks.

“I was born ready.” Chuckling to herself, Emma steps to the bottom of the stairs, shouting up for Henry to wash his hands and make his way down, “or else I’m going to eat your dinner too!”

“Don’t you dare, Mom!” he responds quickly, sounding almost like a baby elephant trying to run for the first time.

Henry stumbles down the stairs soon after, barreling into the only empty chair left at the table. Together, the four of them eat in what soon becomes one of the happiest meals of Emma’s life. Henry and David hit it off immediately, trading smiles identical to the one hanging up only a few feet behind both of them. The Nolans talk about their wedding and subsequent honeymoon in the U.K., staying in castles and being treated like a king and queen. It’s nice to catch up with them. It makes Emma feel like she was privy to something she knows she has no right to be privy to.

The boys scarf down their food - second servings, even, in the case of her son - before quickly washing their dishes and scurrying off to the living room to watch some show David had DVR’d and Henry had been dying to watch.

Meanwhile, Mary Margaret and Emma stay at the table, talking and sipping at their respective glasses of wine until Emma yawns so intensely that it causes her jaw to crack audibly enough for her friend to hear it.

“Oh, I’m sorry for keeping you up,” Mary Margaret swiftly apologizes, her hand coming to rest on Emma’s knee in sympathy. **“** You must be exhausted.”

“A bit, yeah,” Emma admits. Another yawn surprises her and her one eyelid feels heavy with fatigue.

Standing from her seat, Mary Margaret grabs Emma’s hand to help her rise as well. “Here, let me show you to the guest room.” She leads Emma up the stairs, saying, **“** I know you’re pressed to move everything in, but don’t worry about getting up early tomorrow. Sleep in, take some time for yourself. We’ll take care of Henry until you get up.”

For some reason, Emma starts to tear up. She’s been on her own raising Henry for a decade that her friend’s simple offer to care for him is too much at this exhaustion level.

“Thank you, Mary Margaret,” she says graciously. Slowly, Emma opens her arms, silently asking for a hug, an offer Mary Margaret is more than happy to take her up on. “I know I’ve said it a million times since I got here, but I mean it.”

“You’re not alone here,” Mary Margaret whispers in her ear, her chin comfortably tucked into her shoulder. **“** This is the village it takes to raise a child **.”**

They linger in that embrace for a couple of minutes, Emma taking the time to absorb the warmth and homeyness that Mary Margaret emitted. Those tears from earlier threaten to roll down Emma’s cheek - fat drops that are completely unnecessary for such a happy moment. Sniffing, she finally pulls back and sends her friend a watery grin.

Mary Margaret mimics her smile, patting Emma’s cheek gently. “Sleep well, Emma. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah, see you in the morning,” she mumbles back. Stepping into the guest room, Emma happily falls onto the mattress and sinks into oblivion, traveling clothes and all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there. This is a relatively short chapter, but you get some good Jefferson/Emma interaction as well as Charming family feels. Yeah. That's all I have to say about that.
> 
> A huge massive thank you to sotheylived for betaing this mess of words and shipsxahoy and queen-icicle-fandom for not only reading through the whole thing but making great art to it.

The only reason she wakes up the next morning - and not the next afternoon - is she hears a particularly loud peal of Henry’s laughter from downstairs. Blowing her hair out of her face, Emma has the belated thought that she’d meant to shower last night. Stretching out, the pops and groans of her joints bounce off the decorated walls of the guest room. She spots an open door, a toilet just beyond, and Emma has never been happier to have slept in a room with a connecting bathroom.

Bathed and feeling a little more human, Emma walks down the stairs to find Mary Margaret and Henry watching cartoons on the couch.

“Where’s David?” she asks, leaning over the back of the couch to kiss her son on the top of the head.

“Good morning to you too,” Mary Margaret greets her, placing her cup of coffee down on a coaster on the table. “He’s outside moving boxes into the house.”

Heading out to join him, Emma says over her shoulder, “You guys should’ve gotten me up.”

Mary Margaret says something about Emma needing sleep, but the latter’s already jogging down the front stairs toward David, who’s standing in front of the open hatch of the truck. She crosses her arms as she comes to stand between him and a pile of boxes.

“You’ve got a lot of stuff,” he says. A light sheen of sweat already covers his forehead and, despite thinking that Maine is always cold, Emma’s a bit fearful of how hot the temperature will get today.

“I thought the same thing,” she sighs. Even outside for only a few minutes, Emma can feel the sweat building up on the back of her neck. She quickly ties her hair up in a ponytail, offering some relief, but not much. Maybe once she gets moving, the breeze from the back and forth of her hair will help.

She sighs again. “There’s so much more than when I left the East Coast.”

“I think that comes with having a kid,” David offers.

Emma hums in agreement. And, because curiosity often gets the better of her, she asks, “Is that something that the newlyweds have discussed and I can be nosy about or is that for another day?”

David chuckles. “How about another day?” he replies. “Or maybe even later today, once we’re celebrating you being all moved in with a cold beer and air conditioning.”

That makes Emma laugh. “Deal.”

Sighing again, David claps his hands. “Well, as much as we want it to, this shit ain’t gonna move itself.” He hops into the truck and starts handing more boxes down to her. Henry and Mary Margaret join them shortly afterwards and start taking boxes Emma’s piled on the ground into the house.

“Mary Margaret, can you be sure the A/C’s on full blast?” Emma yells as her friend’s body retreats back into the new home. “I bought this house, I am expecting it to treat me like a princess.”

Emma hears something that sounds suspiciously, like “Yes, your highness,” in response. She smiles wide. It’s been a while since she’s felt this good.

They spend the rest of the morning emptying the U-Haul and getting everything inside before Emma has to return it. Their afternoon is spent organizing and unloading boxes. And by the time it’s starting to get dark, Mary Margaret is pulling the leftover sauce from last night off the stove while the other three sit around the newly reconstructed dining room table, resting their tired muscles and icing strained backs in Emma’s case.

(“David, you’ve got to lift more or walk faster, I don’t care which one, but I felt something crack that shouldn’t have!” she had shouted as she took the majority of the couch’s weight while David tried to open the front door.)

And, as much as she hates to admit it, Emma’s trying to hide tears. It’s been so long since she’s had this feeling – contentment. Her son on one side of her, her closest friends on the other, and a house that is all hers surrounding them. They’re all here on this grand adventure with her and maybe it’s the sleep deprivation talking more than anything, but she’s just so – happy.

(Yeah, she could do without the bumps and bruises and possible strained muscles, but nothing comes without a price, right?)

Leaning over under the guise of picking up a napkin, Henry slyly asks, “Are you okay, Mom?”

Emma nods. “Yeah, kid. I’m doing great.”

0000

The next morning, Emma wakes to a kick to the shin from a messy tumble of hair on the other side of her mattress, and it makes her grin sleepily. Henry tends to do this the first couple of days in any new place – climb into bed with her sometime during the night – before he gets acclimated. Neither of them are quite sure why – the few times she’s asked him, Henry’s just shrugged, flipped over, and gone back to bed.

When he did this back in Phoenix, it was so hot even with the air conditioning and a fan blowing that she had to kick him out. But with the much more temperate and livable weather in Maine and the sheets freshly washed, she doesn’t mind a bit.

In fact, she was afraid that her son might not continue this tradition, now that he’s getting older. Waking up as she does assuages her heart. He might act older, but Henry will always be her baby boy.

After allowing herself a few more minutes to lay in bed, Emma gets up and preps herself for a run. When she’d looked at the weather last night, once the Nolans had headed next door, the forecast had predicted upper 80s during the day. If she wanted to get the lay of the land before threatening her health and livelihood, she’d need to start hitting the pavement.

Emma leaves a kiss on Henry’s forehead and lightly jogs downstairs and out the front door. As she stretches against the gate post – her back’s feeling better, but she doesn’t want to keep adding to her list of ailments – she’s taken aback by how picturesque the street is. Birds are chirping sweetly, the sun’s bright but not too hot, and she thinks that one of her neighbors down the street is even getting his morning paper in a robe.

It’s perfect, in that stereotypical, small town way. There aren’t any sirens or horns blaring, loud music from apartments beneath them. It’s strange not to greet the day in such a fashion, especially after years of it being the only thing she knew.

As she’s running through the streets of Storybrooke – literally, she’s always wanted to run down the middle of the road without being accosted or nearly dying – Emma begins to run through the long list of chores and errands she needs to get done before starting work. She’s got a couple of days, she knows, but Jefferson was never really forthcoming with specifics, and thus she wants to get everything done before so she can focus on really getting this gig right.

“Gotta register Henry for school, gotta get some groceries,” she mutters to herself, her breathing uneven and labored. She stops her listing momentarily to wave at some random woman walking her dog before taking it up again. “Gotta call Jefferson, gotta visit the insurance office.”

By the time she makes it back home, sweat drips off her brow and nearly into her eyes. She walks into the kitchen and cools her face in the cold air of the freezer.

(Like she told Henry before, she’s the parent. She makes the decisions. They’re not always the best examples, but she’s an adult. Emma can do what she wants.)

Her breathing a little more regulated and her skin not feeling as heated, Emma removes her headphones from their socket and dials Jefferson’s number. It’s still early, but she’ll leave a message and cross this chore off her list.

Except he picks up with a perky, “Top o’ the mornin to you.”

“Hey, Jeff,” she says, opening and closing cabinets in search of a glass. “I didn’t expect you to be up this early.”

“I’ve got to get Grace to camp and I never really sleep much as it is,” Jefferson explains. Emma finally finds cups in a cupboard above the sink, and she fills and empties a glass full of water. “What can I do for you, Emma Swan? Cashing in favors? My realtor has some great houses for sale.”

Emma chuckles. “We actually moved in yesterday, so thank you, but I don’t think my credit can stand a vacation house down the street.’’

“Rats.” Jefferson’s voice gets muffled for a second as Emma assumes he talks to Grace, asking her to get herself breakfast or pack a lunch or something. “Well, I’m glad you both made it here safely. How are you liking it so far?”

“It’s,” Emma hesitates for a moment, cup halfway to her lips again, as she searches for a word that correctly identifies how she feels about Storybrooke so far. “Different.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“I don’t know yet. Just…” she shrugs, “different.”

For someone as eccentric as he is, Jefferson has always had a knack for knowing people. Emma feels that power of his eke through the phone, and her instinct is right. “If you need someone to talk to, I can set you up with the local therapist,” he offers. “No judgement, everybody needs to talk to someone. He’s helped me out since coming here.”

“Thanks, Jeff, but I think I’ll be okay for now.” She takes another drink of water before setting the glass in the sink. Mentally, Emma adds fill and run the dishwasher to her list of things to do today. “I’ve only been here two days. Not even. I just need some time to acclimate.”

“Fair enough.” Grace yells something in the background before Jefferson responds. “Then you called for pleasure? Checking in on an old friend?”

“Official business, actually. You said filming starts beginning of July. Are we having a pre-season pow wow or something? Signing our contracts and such?”

“Right, right, right, you guys do need to sign those,” he mutters to himself. “Don’t want you out here doing all this hard work and not getting paid.” Grace shouts something again and Emma can hear the exasperation in Jeff’s voice. It must be getting close to departure time for camp. “Uh, why don’t you and David come over for dinner tomorrow night? Bring the kids and the missus – well, kid in your case, missus in his – and we’ll talk shop over some grilling delights. Grace and I are getting very good at not getting burnt while we do it anymore.”

Emma laughs, then quickly quiets herself down so as not to wake Henry. “Sounds like a plan. We’ll see you tomorrow around 7?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jefferson confirms. “Have a lovely day, Emma Swan.”

“You, too, Jeff. See you tomorrow.”

Hanging up the call, Emma heads upstairs. She needs a shower and then maybe she’ll have the energy to make pancakes for breakfast. She enters her room to find Henry burrowed even deeper into the covers of the bed. She grins and heads to the bathroom.

Clothed and clean, Emma leans over the mattress, letting her hair drip onto the sheets, and gently shakes Henry. When he rouses, she’s got a smile on her face that looks like it’s Christmas morning instead of a Thursday at the end of June.

“C’mon, kid,” she whispers excitedly. “Let’s go explore this place.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who’s in the mood to meet some fishermen? Anybody get seasick? I’d suggest getting off this ship now. It’s only going to get more intense from here.
> 
> As always, a million and seven thank yous to sotheylived for betaing this story, shipsxahoy for the lovely cover art, and queen-icicle-fandom for the hand-drawn art. (Go give them some love. Follow them, they’re great people, scouts’ honor.)

It’s early in the morning, and far too chilly to be late June. Her research did say that the weather would be cooler, but this? It’s like 60 degrees, if that. Last week saw record-breaking heat and now it’s freezing at the end of June. Stepping through the dewy grass gets her toes wet in her sandals and soaks the bottom of her jeans, making her even colder than she should be.

Right now, Maine is not at all the smartest move she’s made.

Jefferson, being the one to orchestrate this show – this entire ordeal really – leads them toward the water. He chatters away in the manner of nonsense, like he tends to do. Even when she first knew him, Emma thought he was mad as a hatter, or at least sometimes as creative as one.

At their dinner on Friday evening, in which she and David signed contracts that promised them exorbitant amounts of money, and while Grace and Henry chased each other around yard, Jeff explained to Emma and David that he’d managed to set up a bit of time with the crews of the trawling business so they could all get to know each other. The more Jefferson talks about it, the more Emma feels like she’s being prepped for the first day at a new school. She’s walking into this group of people who have known and worked together for who knows how long and here she is, the new girl in a man’s world.

Needless to say, her stomach gurgles with nerves.

Jefferson’s leading them toward a huge group of people all hanging about by the edge of the water. Even from afar, she can tell the group consists of men. Baggy jeans, flannels, combat boots. If they weren’t by the water, Emma would think she’s intruded on a lumberjack convention. 

Leaning toward David, Emma asks, “What is with all the flannels? Do they know it’s June?”

David looks over at her with a smirk. “Says the girl wearing a sweatshirt.”

Emma shrugs. “What? It’s windy,” she retorts. David sends her a side-eye of knowing deflection that makes her blush. Arms crossed over her chest to keep warm, she can’t help the slight blush that washes her cheeks. 

“It’s alright, Em,” he says, knocking into her side gently. “I know how guys somehow fluster you.”

She scoffs. “Please. Nothing flusters me.”

Jefferson comes to a stop at the backs of the crowd, and Emma and David halt behind him. He claps his hands to get the attention of the group. This is where Emma corrects herself: the flannel-clad group is made of mostly men, with one woman.

Girl power, she thinks. Way to represent.

“Alright, crew,” Jefferson says loud and clear, in his usual dramatic flair. “These are the two folks who are going to be operating the cameras on your ships.” He gestures toward her and David with open palms. She scowls while David, on the other hand, gives a small wave. “At some point in the near future, I’d really appreciate if you took these two landlubbers on board and taught them the ropes a little bit.” 

There’s an uncommitted hum of agreement and understanding from the sailors. Jefferson spins around, his coattails flying behind him, to address her and David. “You camera folks, I want you to look for some places you’d think make for good mounted cameras. Think the corners of roofs, break rooms, whatever.”

“Of course,” Emma says simultaneously with David’s much more casual “Yeah, no problem.”

Jeff sends them a slightly crazed smile and a thumbs up before turning back to the crews. “Okay, why don’t you kids split off into your crews,” he says. Over his shoulder, he continues, “Mr. Nolan, you’ll be with the _ Jewel of the Realm _ . It’s the bigger of the two boats and your captain runs the family business. Em, you’re with the  _ Jolly Roger _ .”

She can’t help but roll her eyes. “Really? Like the pirate ship?” It would figure: Henry mentions piracy, calls their move Operation Pirate. This is really too much. 

With a shrug, Jefferson says, “I ask not where inspiration comes from or when it hits.” And with a flick of his hands, he starts walking back toward town. It seems that she’s been dismissed. 

While David is already laughing it up with the larger of the two breakout groups, Emma strolls up to the smaller group. There’s four men: two with scruff, one with strikingly blond hair, and one whose attitude rolls off him in waves. She’s not intimidated by them, but she’s jealous of David. At least if she was assigned to the larger boat, the woman would be there, just so she’d have someone to talk to. Maybe. At least she would have a better chance of understanding where Emma was coming from.

But no, she’s got to babysit four grown men who probably act like teenagers. Especially that moody one. God, if Henry is a fraction as angsty as that guy come his teen years, she’ll have to ground him until he goes off to college.

She takes a deep breath to steady herself and then settles in to her tendency to be bossy. These guys will listen to her,  _ respect  _ her, if it’s the last thing she does.

“Okay, boys, I’m Emma Swan,” she starts, her voice strong, unquestioning, perhaps (hopefully) even threatening. “I have no qualms beating you into shape, but this is supposed to be a reality show, so I can’t do it that often. Don’t make me.”

The four of them chuckle. “A woman who’s not afraid to throw a man around,” the blond one says. “I like a woman in charge.”

Emma shakes her head and her hand flies up in the universal symbol for stop. “Gross. No, not happening,” she says with finality. Looking each one of them in the eye, she adds, “That goes for all of you. This –” she gestures to herself, “and that –” she gestures to each of them, “will not happen. We are coworkers at best, and that’s it. Understand?”

She’s happy to see a touch of fear in the blond one’s eyes, but he ultimately nods. One of the scruffed men steps forward and offers her his hand. “Won’t be a problem, Ms. Swan. The name’s Robin, Robin Locksley.”

“Nice to meet you, Robin.” She takes his hand and shakes it firmly. Internally, she breathes a sigh of relief. At least one of these guys seems to have a good head on his shoulders. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Likewise.” Robin grins, then points to the blond and the moody one. “This here is Victor Whale and this bastard’s Will Scarlet.”

Whale nods respectfully while Scarlet offers her his hand as well. “Lovely to meet ya, luv,” he greets her.

With a grimace, Emma takes Scarlet’s hand, then looks to the only one who she’s yet to be introduced to: the second scruffed man. He’s sort of hanging back behind his crewmates, dark hair swept over his eyes and a brooding look about him.

Great, this one’s got an attitude to, she thinks. Can’t wait to deal with that in the middle of the ocean.

“And you are?” she asks leadingly, bordering on patronizingly.

The man swaggers forward. “Killian Jones,” he says in a low accented voice. “Captain of the  _ Jolly Roger _ .”

His eyebrow cocks up at the statement, as if he’s waiting for her to faint or gasp or be impressed. He seems full of himself, so naturally Emma decides to take him down a notch.

“Alright, captain. There’s no need for an attitude.”

“No, luv, you don’t understand.” Scarlet steps forward to explain, a hand flying up as if to keep one of them from attacking the other. “He fancies himself Captain Hook.”

Emma audibly scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Of course you would.”

“And what’s the tone there, Swan?” Jones asks. Disregarding Scarlet’s arm entirely, he comes closer to her, invading her personal space without a care. “Careful, many a lass has found themselves drawn to the captain himself,” he warns her.

And, to be quite honest with herself, she can see why – the whole bad boy thing really works in his favor, what with the general darkness surrounding him and then the pop of his startlingly blue eyes – but she’s been scorned more than once and knows how to react to those asses.

“Right,” Emma monotones. “Anyway, if you guys could give me a tour of the boat-”

“Ship, love.” It’s Jones that interrupts her and she can tell, just _ knows _ , that he’s going to do that for the entirety of this project. “The  _ Jolly Roger _ ’s a ship, not a boat.”

“Not your love,” she mutters. And then, under her breath to self, she mumbles, “Really not your love.”

In a moment, he’s somehow magically appeared at her side instead of in front of her, breaking all her boundaries. “We shall see, Swan,” he whispers in her ear. “We shall see.”

Emma jumps, if for no other reason to hide the dissipating goosebumps on her skin.

“Gimme a tour of the  _ ship _ -” she looks pointedly at Jones- “like Jeff said and we can all get on with our lives.”

With a single nod, Jones strides off, leading the way down the docks, Whale and Scarlet following not too far behind. Robin, however, hangs back with her.

“Welcome to Storybrooke.”

“Thank you,” she says on a sigh. Though the sun is up, the sea breeze keeps the temperature lower than she desires, so she hugs herself to keep from shivering. The sweatshirt was a great idea. “It’s a nice change in scenery.”

“Really? Where are you coming from?”

“The southwest, where it’s really fucking hot all the time.” Her hand flies to her mouth and her eyes go wide. This guy is supposed to be a coworker. She’s supposed to be professional around them, but the cold is really throwing her off her game, among other things. “Sorry.”

Robin chuckles heartily. “Not a problem,” he tells her. “I have a feeling you’ll fit right in with this crew, Ms. Swan.”

Emma brings her hand away from her mouth. Glad at his admission, she requests, “Go ahead and call me Emma, Robin.” He nods. “Honestly, I just pull that out to assert myself. Sometimes guys see a pretty face and their dicks take control of their brains.”

Robin laughs again. “I completely agree. My wife and I are trying to raise my son specifically against that.”

With relief, she smiles. This. This is familiar. This she knows how to approach. “How old is he, your son?” Emma asks.

“A very insistent four and a half.”

She laughs. “I remember those days,” she says with fondness. At that age, they lived in a city and Henry demanded he pet every dog they passed and told their owners how old he was. When she glances at Robin, he’s got the question on the tip of his tongue, which she is more than happy to answer. “My son’s ten now.” 

(Robin’s nice. He’s not a dick like his captain, at least. And he’s married, so he won’t hit on her, with a son of his own, which she can relate to, maybe even advise him on from time to time.

Emma thinks she might have just made her first new friend in town.)

“Probably a right young gentleman,” Robin compliments. 

“I think so,” she says. “You know how it is with kids. They come into your world kicking and screaming and take over your every waking thought shortly afterwards.”

“Yes,” he agrees with a chuckle. Neither of them talk for a minute as they navigate the wooden slats of the dock. Robin steps ahead of her ever so slightly to lead her to the  _ Jolly Roger _ . “Well, I hope you both like it here. Once you’re a little more settled, you should come over to our place for dinner. My wife’s lasagna is to die for.”

Emma nods. “We’d love that.”

There are three signs telling her they’ve reached the proper ship. The first is the most obvious – the boat in front of her bears bold black letters at the tip:  **THE JOLLY ROGER** . The second is Emma can spot David’s blond hair and shoulders on the larger ship next to it. 

The third is Jones’ loud, already annoying voice interjecting itself into her and Robin’s conversation. “You already inviting the lass to ship dinners?”

“Did he tell you about Regina’s lasagna?” Whale shouts from some unknown corner of the deck. 

“More importantly, her apple pie?” Scarlet asks, his head poking over the side of the ship with a wry smile. “I’m tellin ya, mate, songs should be written about Regina’s pie.”

Robin chuckles. “I’ll be sure to send the compliments along,” he says humbly. Then, addressing his captain specifically, he adds, “I was trying to welcome Emma to town. I was saying how we should have her and her son over for dinner soon.”

Jones’ eyebrow goes up.  _ Way _ up. “Son?” he echoes. Even with the distance between them, Emma catches his eyes flick down to her left hand where it lies across her chest. She’s tempted to hide it all together, just to watch him squirm, but figures he would’ve already caught a glint of wedding band if there were one.

“Yeah,” she responds. “Is that going to be a problem?”

To his credit, Jones doesn’t react to her ringless finger, nor does he react poorly to learning of Henry’s existence. “Quite the contrary, I would think,” he says. “Would he like to become a pirate?”

Robin ushers her up the few steps to the deck while Emma groans. Jones watches her the entire time, like a hawk on its prey, as she clomps up the stairs. “Don’t even joke about that. You should have seen his face when I had to tell him this show wasn’t about pirates.”

Robin and Jones both chuckle at that. 

Thankfully, Jones isn’t the one giving her the tour. There’s something about him and the air he gives off that unnerves her. Not in a way that sets off her motherly instincts, makes her want to keep Henry safe from any pervert she comes across. No, this sets off a completely different alarm, and, at the moment, Emma can’t decide whether that alarm is good or bad.

Instead, Robin shows her around the boat, interspersing facts and figures of the vessel with quirky little stories about his son and wife. In turn, Emma feels comfortable enough to ask questions - not that she would care because it is her job on the line. She searches for spots that she think would hold smaller, mounted cameras on the frame of the ship: one inside the galley where the crew hangs out, a couple outside the crow’s nest, another on the rope reeler. 

Every once in a while, Whale or Scarlet pops up out of nowhere, adding an unnecessary sexual comment or a snarky jibe. It’s like they wait their turn for the new toy - her.

Robin, to his credit, doesn’t seem fazed. He answers every question she asks in terminology that makes enough sense to her and explains the machinery as they pass by it.

The whole tour doesn’t last very long – the ship’s only about 35 feet long, mostly covered with ropes and cages.

“It’s much roomier once we’ve set the cages down at the bottom,” Robin says. “Little more elbow room, I promise.”

Their final stop is the captain’s roost, where Jones is sitting behind the wheel and making calculations. He looks up but doesn’t say anything while Robin talks.

And, figuring that she won’t be in this place without the captain, Emma allows herself to zone out, let Robin’s voice turn into white noise and dull to a buzz while she studies Jones.

He’s handsome, she’ll give him that. Sharp jawline, laser focus, shaggy hair that manages to fall artfully over his face and ears. She wonders if he wakes up and leaves it like that or if he, like some of the kids at Henry's school, spends far too long making it look that way.

(He must do something to it. Otherwise, it surely wouldn’t so neatly cover the pinched points of his ears, would it?)

Robin claps his hands, breaking her concentration. “I think that’s it,” he says, glancing at her **. “** Have any questions?”

“Yeah, can we ‘ave lunch yet?” Scarlet shouts from below. “I’m starved.”

All of them laugh aloud. “Seems like privacy doesn’t exist even up here,” Jones mutters with a pained smile. He yells down to the deck, “You lads can go ahead to Granny’s. I’ll field any questions from Swan.”

“I actually think I’m good,” Emma says as Robin takes his leave. “I just need to compare notes with Jeff and David and then we can start installing the stationary cameras.”

His crewmates shout something back that she can’t quite make out, but he waves them on with a smile. She can tell when they’re back on the docks and on to town by the way his grin falls ever so slightly. He tries to hide it, but she’s always been more observant than the usual person. From his spot at the window, he still somehow manages to swagger up to her in this small space. This time, Emma holds back her eye roll. 

“Then if you don’t mind, I’ve got a few queries for you,” he says simply. With a jerk of his head, Jones ushers her down the ladder. His feet hit the deck only a couple seconds after she moves from the bottom rung of the ladder. “These cameras, would you mind telling me where you wish to place them?”

She cocks an eyebrow in curiosity. “Why?”

Turning to face her, Jones tilts his head. His voice goes low again, low and serious. “My brother’s just instated me as captain of this ship and I take that responsibility very seriously.” Straightening his spine, he walks to the side of the ship and looks out toward the sound and open water. “You’ll come to find that the sea can be a fickle mistress. These planks and nails are built to precision.” The way he speaks of the vessel – what Emma thought only this morning as an organized pile of wood and nails – as if it’s a lifeline. And, as he continues, she begins to realize why. “It will be the only thing keeping you from sinking to Davy Jones’ locker in a summer squall, just as those men will be the first people to risk their lives so you can come home to your boy.”

He faces her again, turning his back on the sea. Her eyes quickly flit over him until they connect with his, almost imperceptibly different from the waters he was just observing. There’s overwhelming honesty behind his eyes when he says, “I need to make sure that every man I take out to sea comes back to shore unharmed.”

The ferocity of his tone surprises Emma. It’s in this moment where she can really, really see the character he fancies himself. She wouldn’t want to run into him in a dark alley.

(There’s a moment, a little tickle at the back of her brain, that mentions how much she might enjoy dragging him out into said dark alley, but it’s neither the time nor the place for that sort of thought. Not now, not ever.)

But she shows her appreciation for his protectiveness with a nod. “I don’t think it’ll mess with aerodynamics or anything like that, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she tells him. Emma quickly points out the locations she wants to put the cameras. 

“They’re small, no larger than my outstretched hand,” she assures him. Jones asks about the specific dimensions, and Emma shrugs because she just doesn’t know offhand. “I’m telling you, it shouldn’t throw anything off kilter. If you’re really that concerned, talk to Jefferson or David or the captain of the other ship.”

Jones grumbles something to himself, skating his hand over the shadow of hair on his chin and jaw. It seems their conversation has come to an end and, with it, Emma sees the captain in a new light. They’re not too different in at least one aspect: they’re protective of their loved ones. The severe tone of his voice when he speaks about his crewmembers is similar – gruff and unquestionable – as hers is when another parent tries to tell her how to raise Henry.

Her ponderings are interrupted when she hears footfalls joining them on deck. Slowly, she turns on her heel to meet David and another man. He’s tall with curly hair and blue eyes she could pick out of a line up. He sticks his hand out immediately, kind smile wide.

“You must be the Emma Swan I’ve heard legend of,” he says. “I’m Liam Jones, owner of these two fine ships and this is my little brother.”

Off behind her, Jones protests, “Younger brother, Liam, we’ve discussed this.”

“I hope he’s been nothing but a gentleman during your tour?” Emma can’t tell if Liam is serious when he asks the question, but she suspects a hint of teasing.

She smiles at Jones and is tempted to rat him out or make him sweat, but there’s something about him that makes her answer, “Chivalry embodied.”

“Good,” Liam says jovially. He slaps his brother on the shoulder. “Might you two want to join us all for lunch? Granny’s Diner is the place to eat in town.”

Emma looks to David for her answer. He’s already shaking his head. “I promised my wife I’d help her decorate the living room once we finished up here,” he explains.

In her mind, Emma’s already disregarded the Jones brothers’ invitation. In a new town, she finds herself acting a lot like she did in high school and college: she didn’t go anywhere where she didn’t already know one person. She’d spent so much of her childhood losing friends and families that she got sick of making new ones without a solid backup to fall upon when they eventually ran away.

But Jones doesn’t know that.

“And you, Swan? Care for a bite of food?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s got a very expressive face, Emma thinks, as he leans closer. In a tone meant only for her, Jones adds, “Perhaps a bite of something else?”

Emma gulps. Like, really gulps, like she’s some nervous cartoon character, for Christ’s sake. And is that a blush she feels rising on her cheeks? She tries to be sly in checking it, pretending to push her hair behind her ears by first brushing over her cheeks. Clearing her throat to buy her even a second more of time to compose herself, she finally responds, “I probably should, but I left Henry all alone at the house this morning, so I’ve got to go back and make sure he hasn’t set the place on fire.”

The Joneses share a look before bursting into laughter. Liam bends at the waist to catch his breath and Jones leans on his brother’s back for support. Emma sends a questioning look to David, who unhelpfully shrugs, and then back to the brothers.

“Love, if there was a fire, you would’ve heard the sirens,” Jones says, the last of his chuckles dying. He sniffs and wipes under his eye. “Alas, I understand. Your boy needs you first.”

And, like a fool, Emma snaps her fingers and sends him finger guns of approval. “Rain check.”

To their credit, neither of the Joneses – or even David for that matter – react. Liam nods and disboards while Jones smirks. “I’ll hold you to that, Swan.” 

Biting on her lower lip, Emma nods and waves. Jones winks at her, shakes hands with David, and follows his brother off the ship.

And her eyes follow him. For no reason, she assures herself. 

David bumps her shoulder, shocking her from watching the brothers walk away. He’s got a knowing smile on his face. 

“Yeah, nothing flusters you,” he chides her in that big brother manner of his. “Nothing at all.”

She doesn’t need to feel her cheek to know the heat of a blush is there. Her lips pursed and arms crossed, all she can think to mumble is, “Shut up.”


	6. Chapter 6

The week leading up to the Fourth of July is busy. The holiday falls on a Saturday and Jefferson plans to start rolling on Tuesday. And since it’s a trial run - they’ve only been promised a dozen episodes - they run on a skeleton crew: her, David, Jefferson, and a local woman she’s never met named Ruby. She works part time with them, getting B roll on the days they go out to sea, and part time for her grandmother’s diner, the infamous Granny’s. 

It’s while Emma’s atop a ladder placing a mounted camera that she meets Ruby for the first time. She’s got her headphones in, blocking out the shouts of the crew she still hardly knows and the click of heels coming her way. She nearly bites off the tip of her tongue – it tends to jut out when she focuses really hard on the task at hand – when the metal shakes beneath her. Dropping the screwdriver in her hand, Emma grasps at the top rung and when the earthquake stops, she whips around to see the culprit.

She’s not met the stark blue eyes she’d thought she would, but instead warm brown ones outlined with a cat’s eye and perfectly coiffed eyebrows.

“What the fuck?!” Emma yells, ripping her earbuds from their place and trying to bring her breathing back to a normal rate.

“Ooh, the mouth of a sailor,” the woman purrs with a smirk. “I like you already.”

As calmly as she can, Emma descends the ladder to give the stranger a piece of her mind. “The fuck are you? Do you understand how much that camera costs? Would you have paid for it if it broke, ‘cause I sure as hell wouldn’t have!”

The woman shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the grin across her lips, only to fail. “Good thing it didn’t break then. Sorry, babe.” She holds up a small brown bag. “Just wanted to see if you were hungry.”

Ever since their meeting, Emma’s noticed there’s a weird sort of chemistry between Ruby and…well, pretty much anyone over the age of 16 she interacts with. She flirts shamelessly with everything legal, sending winks to the Jones brothers and trailing a lingering finger across Scarlet’s chin. It’s not always innocent, but Emma finds herself somewhat attracted to Ruby’s sense of recklessness.

(It might also be the small fact that Emma hasn’t been given a pet name like babe since  _ him _ and, as off-guard as it caught her, it’s nice to have one again.)

But what draws Emma back to her new friend again and again is her way with her son. Henry’s really taken with her and Ruby’s taken to treating him like a little brother. Every time they visit the diner, Ruby insists on serving them, even if they aren’t in her section or her shift’s just ended. She’ll come along and greet them – a wink or a kiss on the cheek for Emma and a noogie or high five for Henry.

And Emma notices she takes the time to talk to both of them, which settles her motherly instincts. She wants to be a part of  _ both  _ of their lives, not steal her baby boy away from her. She’ll slide in next to Henry after delivering his chocolate milk and her coffee, ask him about his plans for camp and ask her about her plans for her day on the boat.

“Does Jones know you call the  _ Jolly Roger _ a boat?” Emma chuckles one morning over a glass of orange juice. Her eyes connect with Henry’s, which show his smile even as he takes a bite of his toast. 

“No, but it is, and he’s never going to find out.” Ruby glares down at Henry menacingly. “Right?”

Henry shrugs and hides behind his chocolate milk. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me, I’m not gonna say anything,” he grumbles. 

She’s nice, Emma finds herself thinking more often than not. Sassy, but stern. She sees that the one afternoon when Ruby’s babysitting for a couple of the neighborhood kids. She slaps them across the back of the head when the boneheads nearly get run over by a passing car. One of the boy blushes furiously, Emma can tell from her spot across the street, but then Ruby pulls him in for the sidehug and everything seems peachy between them.

Once school starts up and Mary Margaret’s busy being a teacher instead of a camp counselor, maybe Emma will ask the waitress to watch Henry after school.

If only things were working as well on the decks of the _Jolly Roger_ as they were on the streets of Storybrooke. Once they’ve mounted the cameras in their assigned places on their assigned ships – a task that takes far longer than it should, in her humble opinion, the last ones being installed the morning of the Fourth – Emma trades places with David to check the sturdiness and clarity on the _Jewel_. It’s customary, something they even used to do back at school: check each other’s work, offer suggestions, and work together to get to the best ultimate end.

(It’s not cheating if they did their own base work, or at least that’s the lie they told themselves.)

She’s precariously balanced on the top step of the ladder, reaching for a camera pointed outwards instead of downwards, when a low timbre voice speaks from behind her. She jumps, making a tinny noise from the contraption beneath her feet.

“Christ almighty,” she whispers, catching herself.

“Sorry, lass,” Liam apologizes, gently righting her and resting a foot on the bottom rung. “I didn’t mean to frighten you too badly.”

Emma chuckles to cover up how surprised she was by the elder Jones’ appearance. “No, it’s fine. I’ll just resign myself to not seeing my son married off because you took a decade off my life,” she quips.

That earns her a scoff and a shake of Liam’s head. “Now, Emma, there’s no need to be dramatic.” Emma rolls her eyes and is about to respond, but he holds up a finger to keep her from speaking. “I was wondering if you would like to come watch the fireworks on the  _ Jewel _ .” 

“Oh,” she hesitates, looking down. “I mean, I would love to, but-”

“Your boy can come,” he interrupts her again. Raising her eyes a tad, Emma watches Liam bend down to catch her sight. “You know, you don’t have to keep him locked away, Emma. We all understand: you’re a single mother and you want to keep your private life private.” She doesn’t say anything because that’s not  _ exactly  _ false, but it’s not the exact truth either. 

Liam sighs. His hand slaps on the metal of the ladder, sending vibrations of sound and sensations up her legs to her arms resting on the top rung. “I don’t know if Killian’s told you or given you the idea, but we’re all family here. We spend holidays together and go out to the pub after rough days.” Leaning forward, Liam says, “One day, you’ll need someone to lean on. And when that day comes, I want you to know that your shoulders can relax around us.” 

Pushing off the ladder and waving her down, he adds, “And if these pricks won’t calm you down, then I will,” with a gentle smile.

Emma reaches the solid deck and rests her hands akimbo on her hips. “You know, you’re a lot nicer than your brother,” she tells him, squinting to see his face around the bright sunlight.

“He’s really a good man,” Liam says around a chuckle. “His heart is always in the right place. Or at least close enough to it.” He bends slightly forward, making his facial features a bit more visible. He’s got his brow cocked, which she’s swiftly learning is the Jones family sign for impending stupidity. “You should give him a chance.”

“Oh, that’s rich.” She can’t help her response. It’s textbook dickhead: send in the wingman to talk up the targeter. “So he’s sending his big brother in with a solid word.” Emma scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Nice.”

“No, he hasn’t said a word to me.” That surprises her, to say the least. Even from the few interactions she’s caught between the brothers, she wouldn’t put it past Liam to be talking his little brother up. Well, she would put it past Liam to actually follow through with it, but she wouldn’t put it past Jones to ask for his older brother’s assistance.

Liam points an accusatory finger at her, making her go cross-eyed. “But I know him,” he continues. “I’ve seen when he’s interested in a woman.” With a satisfactory grin, he brings his hand down and crosses his arms across his chest proudly. “And he’s got all the tell-tale signs.”

Emma shrugs like his words don’t spark a little something within her. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t really date.”

“Henry?” he asks shortly. 

“Mhmm,” she hums. 

“Surely you’ve  _ dated _ in the past decade.”

She shrugs again, walking down the stairs to the main deck, expecting Liam to follow. From the footsteps clunking behind her, she isn’t wrong. “It’s been hard, but there has been the odd occasion where I’ve managed a long enough break from parenting,” she explains. But then she twirls around, grimacing at him and furrowing her brows. “Why are we even talking about my sex life?”

A smug smile spreads across his face. “Because, as an older brother, I love to make people uncomfortable.”

She scoffs out, “That’s obvious.”

But, regardless of the awkwardness he might cause her, Emma finds herself taking him up on his offer a few hours later. She and Henry walk down the docks maybe an hour before sunset, only aware of where they’re going from the loud voices and boisterous music coming from the only lit vessel in the harbor. Coming aboard, Emma is immediately whisked off by Robin to be introduced to his wife and son. When she looks over her shoulder, she catches Ruby waving at her, a friendly arm slung around Henry, gently leading him toward the group of kids with sparklers. 

For the first time since moving to Storybrooke, she’s actually having fun. Both the  _ Jewel  _ and  _ Jolly Roger  _ crews are there, plus many townsfolk she hasn’t ever seen. She should’ve expected that, what with the pure amount of people on the deck at once, but it still surprises her. Robin’s wife Regina is a tad cold, but when she sees Emma interact with their son Roland, her icy heart seems to melt. Ruby’s pulling her over every couple of minutes to throw back a shot – 

“Ruby, I’ve got Henry.”

“You’re walking home, you’ll be fine. If you forget him, someone’ll bring him home.”

“Great, there goes my mother of the year award.”

– at the makeshift bar in the galley. And it’s all really,  _ really  _ fun.

It’s late in the night, way past Henry’s bedtime slightly-more-than-tipsy Emma idly realizes, when the fireworks shake her heart and her eardrums, that she realizes the magnitude of tonight. It’s the first time in a long time that Emma’s celebrated a holiday with someone other than Henry. And she loves her son more than anything in the world, but being able to casually drink a beer with Mary Margaret and discuss the state of the Patriots’ upcoming season with Robin and David makes her feel like the adult she really is.

“What do you think?” She drags her eyes away from the bright lights in the sky long enough to find the bright blue eyes of the younger Jones brother. “How does the small Maine town’s display compare to the big city’s?”

She shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. We didn’t see fireworks last year.” But she furrows her eyebrows, because that doesn’t sound right. The fireworks got rained out last year, didn’t they? Or was that the year before and last year was the summer the arches of her feet sweated profusely? She shakes her head and looks back at him. “I don’t really remember.”

Tilting his head to the side, Jones grins. “Still.” He pauses, just lets the quiet grow between them, only once interrupted by an explosion. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, Swan?” he asks quietly. 

She smiles and sends him a wink before looking back at the sky. “None of your damn business, Jones.”

Much like the rest of her evening, her remaining two days of freedom go by quickly. Naturally, she spends every waking hour with Henry. Knowing the grueling and unpredictable schedule she’ll be forced to adhere to for the next couple of months, she wants to stock up on some good quality mother/son bonding time while she can. They sleep in late on Sunday and make a mess of their new kitchen cooking an unnecessarily large brunch. Emma pulls him out of camp on Monday and they go to the pool, unpack a little more, and fall asleep on the floor of the living room in a wonky little blanket fort.

It’s way too late – just after midnight, if her blurry eyesight is to be trusted – when she wakes up and forces Henry into his own bed. Once he flops on his mattress all caddywhompus, she falls gracelessly into her own bed without brushing her teeth and sinks back into unconsciousness.

Emma wakes up the morning filming is supposed to start and finds it entirely too difficult to get out of bed. After waking up halfway through the night and the gray, rainy morning, texting Henry and beckoning him to come and hang out in her big bed sounds like the best idea in the world. It’s been a while since she pulled the mom card and pulled her son into her arms and forced him to snuggle with her.

Alas, she tears herself from the warmth of her blankets and into the bathroom. She showers, washing the sleep from the corner of her eyes and the kink in her back from sleeping on the floor. She dresses comfortably and as water repellently as her current wardrobe allows.

(She really hopes she doesn’t get soaked. She’d rather not get wet at all, but working on a boat on a rainy day, she sees little chance in that all happening.)

Peeking into Henry’s room, she finds him still fast asleep. It’s early, he doesn’t need to be at camp for another hour and a half at least, so she lets him be. As quietly as she can, Emma opens the door, walks in, and presses her lips to his cheek, the only part of his face not covered by blankets or pillow.

He hums and mumbles, “Be careful, Mom.”

Chuckling, she reassures him. “I will, kid.” Pressing another kiss to his cheek, she can’t help the grin that spreads across her face. “I love you. Have a good day.”

He hums again and shifts in bed, moving so only his one leg hangs dangerously (and certainly uncomfortably) off the edge of the mattress instead of both his feet. She hears his breath even out as he falls back asleep before she’s even left the room.

Whipping her phone from her back pocket, Emma texts Mary Margaret as she walks down the stairs, asking her to get Henry up and to camp on time. She gets a way too perky response as she chokes down her coffee, assuring her not to worry, and then she’s tying her shoes, checking her camera gear, and heading down to the docks.

The rain has let up, thankfully, since she woke up, so the short drive down to the water isn’t as painful and treacherous as she thought it was going to be. Originally, Emma had planned on arriving just in time for them to ship off for the day, but it seems the weather and her quicker-than-expected drive gets her to the  _ Jolly Roger  _ while the crew is still bringing aboard supplies. 

She unloads her equipment from the trunk of her Bug, hitching the stabilizer to her body but carrying the camera in her hand until she’s on the boat. Once she figures her way back to the  _ Jolly Roger,  _ Scarlet greets her on the slats of wooden dock, carrying a coil of rope up to the deck in front of her.

“Are you filming yet, luv?” he asks with some effort over his shoulder. 

“No,” she says as he slams the rope down next to a barrel.

Scarlet rolls his shoulders back and stretches. “Good, make sure you get ma good side.”

“Sorry to say, mate, you won’t be making it on the show then.” Jones happily steps up from the galley, slapping his friend on the shoulder in good humor. Scarlet groans and hits him back, then goes beneath deck, mumbling something or other.

Turning to her with a bright smile, Jones asks, “So, Swan. Ready for an adventure?”

Emma shrugs, quite the endeavor with sheer poundage of equipment hanging off of her. “I’m ready for whatever today brings, I suppose.”

He claps her on the back, too, almost throwing her off balance and causing her to faceplant on the - hopefully clean - deck. “That’s the spirit,” he commends her. He leans closer to her, his lips hovering just above her ear. “Just remember: the goal is to come home. All of us. So if the lads yell at you to move, please move, love.”

Solemnly, she nods. “I’ll do my best.”

With a single nod, Jones grins at her again and begins the ascent to his post. “We’re heading out, boys!” he yells. “To your stations!”

“Guess that means we’re starting,” Emma mumbles to herself. “A little more warning would’ve been nice, but noooo.” Flicking the switches on her equipment – mics, stabilizers, backup battery pack – she hefts the camera onto her shoulder and braces herself. “Alright, let’s do this thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a million and seven thank yous to sotheylived for betaing this story, queen-icicle-fandom for the hand-drawn art, and shipsxahoy for the cover art and the brand new gifset that she just posted today. :)


	7. Chapter 7

Gaining her sea legs is a bit of a challenge, but after ten minutes on the water – the  _ Jolly Roger  _ isn’t even out of the sound yet – Emma begins to steady. It’s all in the knees, she finds, along the lines of ice skating: bent knees are better for absorbing the shocks. She’ll probably have a bump on her knee from knocking into the walls of the ship – the hard way of learning that lesson – but it’s a surface injury.

“You’re a natural, love,” Jones shouts from the captain’s hut as they finally hit open water. She turns  with the camera to catch his brilliant smile. “I’ll be able to add you to my roster in no time.”

Behind the viewfinder, she scoffs. “Please, Captain, don’t you have a boat to steer?” she responds, focusing back on Scarlet and Robin preparing some ropes for the first throw of the season.

Even from her spot on the deck, she can hear his groan. “Ship,” Jones says, “it’s a ship, Swan, not a little dingy boat.”

She believes herself to be doing well: she’s only fallen on her ass once so far and that’s because she missed a step going down to interview Whale in the galley. She’s been on the boat – ship, one of these days she’ll remember – for half an hour, so she’ll be fine.

Right?

Nope, not at all. 

The true test comes once they get out of the sound. Jeff and the  _ Jolly Roger _ ’s crew had explained the basic layout of the general harbor: the docks lead out to a sound where boats pass one another in their comings and goings at a slow speed, sort of like a merging zone on a highway. Once they float past the end of a certain jetty, the captains are allowed to proceed full speed in whatever direction they desired to go that day.

It’s when Robin and Whale shout at her to take a hold of something that Emma notices the wind picking up. It seems that Jones is going to nail the gas pedal until they get to their first destination, something that his seasoned crew is prepared for, but she – being the new guy and the one without any background in boats – is not. She finds herself on the ground in a hot second, her back sliding and bumping into the aft of the ship the next, and her grip on the camera dangerously loose.

Unwilling to test her chance at standing, Emma sits, curled in the fetal position at the back of the boat, for probably 15 minutes, until her hair begins to settle into a mess at her shoulders and the crew comes toward her.

“Are you alright there, Emma?” Robin asks, offering her a hand up.

She gratefully takes it, hoisting herself back to standing, and just steadies herself for a second. “Yeah,” she assures him, “I should be fine for now.”

“We’ll be sure to give ya a bit more warning next time,” Scarlet assures her, standing in the doorway heading below deck. And then, yelling into a walkie-talkie, he says, “Isn’t that right, cap’n?”

Jones’ voice crackles back, “I don’t rightfully care unless you lot are throwing the cages into the ocean.”

“Well, you heard the captain,” Whale shouts. Clapping his hands, he jogs to the pile of cages on the side of the ship. “To work, boys!”

Not getting in the way of their work, being a fly on the wall like she’s supposed to be, proves a lot more difficult than Emma originally thought. She’s got no sense of what the guys are going to do yet, except that she’s usually in the middle of the way. When they come to a new trawling grounds, Robin kindly tells her to move this way or that so they can throw the cages into the ocean as fast as possible. She throws Scarlet many a glare after he uses some colorful language to give her the same message. And Whale – she’d rather not think about it.

(Honestly, it’s a miracle that she doesn’t give him a black eye for the things he did to get her to move.)

She bumps into people and objects so many times that she’ll be surprised if she gets one second of good footage today. Luckily, nothing major happened – no broken bones or men overboard. It’s something that she, David, and Jeff accounted for, some time at the beginning of the endeavor to get the lay of the land, or the deck in this case.

In total, Emma comes home from her first day – about nine hours total, from leaving the last step of her front porch to the moment her toes touch the same stair – with that knee bump, two toes that feel broken, a slew of bruises up her right arm, some scratches on her back, and shoulders tense from unused camera-holding muscles. She feels used and raw and beaten. She’s never felt so productive in her life. 

Walking in the front door shortly after dark, she leans against the wood and sighs happily. She leverages herself just enough to kick off her sneakers and sink into the entrance rug. 

“Mom?” Henry’s voice echoes through the halls of mostly-built furniture and empty cardboard boxes. His face peeks around the corner of the living room. “How was your first day?”

“Pretty good,” she answers as she follows her son into the living room. Mary Margaret is sitting on the couch and cranes her neck over the back to smile at Emma. “David should be already home.”

“He is,” her friend says casually. “He texted me about an hour ago.”

“Then why are you still here?” Emma asks, shuffling into the kitchen. Despite being around it all day, she’s dying for a glass of water and then, maybe once Henry’s in bed, something a little stronger. To, you know, ease her wounds and unwind or whatever.

Mary Margaret’s voice is closer, coming from the other side of the counter when she says, “I wanted to make sure Henry was okay.” Turning around, Emma tilts her head, a sign of comfort and appreciation. “And I wanted to hear about your first day.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s similar to your husband’s first day.” She downs the entire glass in one go, pouring and starting to drink a second one before continuing. “Different names, but same general idea.”

“And he’ll tell me all about his day when I get home.” Skirting the island, Mary Margaret comes and rests her hand on Emma’s arm. “You’ve been around practical strangers all day, Emma. I just want to offer you someone you know to share any grievances or stories from your day.”

Raising her eyebrow, Emma qualifies: “So you want to pretend to be my boyfriend? I don’t know how your husband will feel about that.”

Mary Margaret shrugs. “I want to make sure you know that whatever’s happened in the past is in the past **.”** Dragging her hand down to meet Emma’s, Mary Margaret gives her a hopeful squeeze. **“** David and I are always here for you and Henry. Even if that means babysitting or picking Henry up when you’re running late or whatever.”

Emma shifts forward to hug her. “I know, Mary Margaret. I know.” And she does. Or she’s learning to rely on others after years of relying on herself. “Thanks, but it’s been a long day. I just want to hang out with Henry before he goes to sleep and then end the night with a drink and maybe some _Supergirl_.”

“Well, I won’t be in the way much longer,” Mary Margaret says, grabbing some stuff from kitchen table. She turns to both of them. “You guys are coming over for dinner Friday night.”

Chuckling, Emma takes another sip of water. “That sounds like a statement and not a question.”

“It’s not. You’re coming.” Mary Margaret leans down and presses a sweet kiss to the top of Henry’s head before turning back to Emma. “Enjoy your night.”

“You too, Mary Margaret. Have a nice evening with your husband.”

Mary Margaret winks as she leaves and Emma shudders at the mental image that pops to mind. She hears the front door close as she’s facing to Henry.

“Alright, kid, shouldn’t we be getting ready for bed?”

“But Mooom,” her son whines. He’s hunched over his game controller, staring intently at the TV screen. **“** I’m so close to completing this mission.”

Emma sighs and picks up the extra controller. “Can I be any help?”

“Yeah. **”** Pausing the game quickly, Henry turns on her and fixes her with a pointed glare. **“** But then we both finish this mission and the next one.”

Groaning, she resignedly relents. “Ugh, fine. Then bed. No questions.”

Goofy smile on his face, Henry puts his attention back to the screen and plugs her into the game. “Deal.”

0000

By the end of her first week of work, Emma’s gotten the hang of things. Sort of. Jones gives her a heads up as to what his plan the next day is so she can plan what sort of shots she’s going to try and get. He gives her a time of departure every day and she mostly makes it on time. She mostly stays out of everybody’s way, but since it’s the beginning of the season, the stakes aren’t as high. Everyone – captain included – is dusting off their trawling instincts.

Robin is definitely the most helpful of the crew, the most compassionate. Something about having kids creates the ultimate bond between even the most unlikely of compatriots. Emma realizes that on her second day when, before leaving port, Robin gives her a run through of where she should stand or go when certain things happen. While Whale and Scarlet load the galley with snacks and games in what little off time they’ll have, Robin’s trying to teach her trawling 101 on the fly.

Their conversation fades into small talk, Emma revealing small, unimportant bits of her story to further cement her and Robin’s friendship. She succeeds in her mission if him telling her that he and Regina recently found out they're expecting a baby is any indication. Even for people she barely knows, she’s ecstatic for them.

“You can’t tell anyone, though,” Robin makes her promise as he’s coiling rope. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy until told otherwise. Even the lads don’t know.”

Miming zipping her mouth closed, Emma grins. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Robin returns the smile tenfold. Leaning closer to her, he whispers conspiratorially, “I just really wanted to tell someone. It’s quite exciting.”

Scarlet, it seems, has adopted her as his little sister. He teases her at the most inappropriate moments and makes her laugh during the best shots of the day, therefore rendering them almost unusable. The few times he’s seen her about town, Scarlet stops what he’s doing, no matter how important, and takes a few minutes to walk with her.

Whale, on the other hand, is still a sleaze. Her first impression wasn’t wrong about that. But he seems to soften when Emma approaches the topic of the diner or, more specifically, Ruby. Maybe there’s a chance he is partially human after all. She’s made several mental notes to set those two up, give them a slight nudge in each other’s directions.

The only person who she still doesn’t know where she stands with is Jones himself. He’d made attempts to befriend her at the Fourth of July shindig, and a few times in the days since, but there’s just something about him that doesn’t click with her.

(She knows what it is, in the deep recesses of her mind. Emma doesn’t want to connect with him because she fears she’ll  _ connect _ with him. It’s much safer for her and Henry if she doesn’t, if she just keeps things cordial and professional.)

It’s an unspoken agreement between the two of them that things stay work-related unless Liam is around. He acts as a buffer, an older brother to both of them, with teasing and scolding and such. Things don’t seem as awkward with Liam around, and for that, Emma is grateful.

Before she knows it, Emma is flipping her calendar – homemade, a birthday gift from Henry last year with pictures of them on their various adventures – to August. A month until school starts and a month since she started this gig. A little over a month since they moved to Storybrooke.

“It’s been a good month,” she mutters to herself before going to empty the dishwasher and start on dinner. “Hopefully that’s a good sign.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are: another week, another update. Four million and six thank yous to sotheylived, shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, and everyone over at captainswanbigbang, for this would be absolutely nothing without any of you :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember having a really tough time trying to connect this chapter to the sentiment I wanted to give off, but it came out great. Some of my favorite (and oldest) parts of writing are in this chapter, so I hope you enjoy it.  
> As always, thanks to sotheylived, shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, and the crew over at captainswanbigbang, who I will never be able to thank enough. But, most importantly, thanks to YOU. My mother would be appalled: you guys are all leaving wonderful comments and kudos and reblogging and whatever else and it's taken me eight chapters to thank you. My deepest apologies, thank you, thank you, thank you.

It’s way past her bedtime, especially knowing that Jones told her the _Roger_ is leaving tomorrow at 5 a.m., which means she needs to be up by no later than four. But Emma’s let the laundry sit for too long as it is and now that it’s on her mind, she’s not going to sleep until it’s at least folded.

As she’s setting the last of Henry’s shirts on top of the dryer, all of the clean clothes ready to be put away, she hears hurried footsteps above her. Henry has been asleep for hours, so that either means that someone’s broken in - doubtful, but one can never be too sure - or something’s wrong with Henry.

Trying her best not to panic, Emma jogs upstairs to find the light beneath the bathroom door illuminated. She knocks cautiously. “Henry?” she murmurs. “Are you okay in there?”

Though there’s no verbal response, the knob does turn and click open a crack. Emma pushes in, unsure of what she’ll find.

Settling back into his position curled against the toilet, far too pale for her 10-year-old son in the middle of summer, Henry moans. Sweat beads on his brow and his eyes look hazy.

Without a second thought, Emma kneels down beside him, brushing matted hair away from his face. He’s burning up. Emma reaches beneath the sink and wets a washcloth, patting it to the cheek that doesn’t rest against the toilet seat.

“Mom,” Henry mumbles. “I don’t feel good.”

“I figured, kid.” She busies herself with running the cloth over his hair and down his arms. “Do you still feel like you’re going to throw up?”

Henry nods weakly before alarm widens his eyes. The simple movement must set off something, and he’s leaning over and into the toilet in the next blink. All Emma can do is run her hand up and down his back and wipe away the tears that follow in an effort to calm him down.

“It’s okay, kid, it’s gonna be alright.”

Sniffing, Henry swipes at his mouth. “I hate being sick,” he grumbles.

Emma chuckles and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I know.” She shifts her body so she can hold him a bit easier, comb her fingers through his hair.

Luckily for them both, Henry doesn’t get sick that often, but when he does, it’s an ordeal. One time, when he was about six, Henry contracted pneumonia and it nearly killed her. She had to take two weeks off to take care of him, and while she loved every minute she spent with her son and not with the random annoying crew she was with that month, the bills did not. 

Eventually, Emma manages to maneuver Henry back into his room, a bucket at his bedside and a cup of ice on his table. He sleeps in fits and starts, his fever not yet broken. 

She knows he’ll be okay - the doctors tell her he’s healthy at every check up - but it still worries her. Nobody was around when she was his age or younger to comfort her, offer her advice to settle her stomach, or spend the night making sure her fever wasn’t getting any worse. The only person she had as company was herself. 

So Emma spends the night in his bed, Henry sinking into her side comfortably when he does manage to sleep. If she gets more than an hour of sleep tonight, she’ll consider it a win.

When her alarm goes off at four, Emma gets up silently and prepares for the day like a zombie. She almost takes her phone into the shower, the heat of the water shocking her system with one foot in and her fingers tapping away at a text asking Ruby to come over and watch Henry. She responds quickly, already up to help Granny make breakfast.

**I’ll have to help Granny in a min. H might have to hang here during my shift.**

**That’s fine** , Emma replies.  **As long as he’s quarantined. Don’t think Granny wants to infect her customers.**

By the time she somehow stumbles down to the dock, Emma’s awake enough to pass as slightly hungover. Thank god the water is calm or else today would’ve been a total waste in filming. 

(She feels like a total waste. How she managed to return to the harbor unscathed and without falling overboard is a miracle.)

After a far-too-late night and an early morning of filming, Emma goes to Granny’s for a quick pick-me-up. The coffee there isn’t anything close to Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts or whatever big name chain she relied on in the city, but there’s a hint of something more pleasureable in the old woman’s drink that makes Emma think it tastes better. It’s, like, love or something silly like that.

“Hey there, sunshine,” Ruby greets her from behind the register.

“You know what I like,” Emma says on a sigh. 

“I do indeed.” Requesting the required funds with an open hand, Ruby rings her up and shouts her order back to the kitchen. After they both hear Granny’s grumbled response, Ruby look back to Emma. “I’m assuming you’ll want to see your son as well.”

“That would be appreciated.”

With a crinkle of her nose, Ruby moves from behind the counter and heads through the door that connects to Granny’s inn. Emma knows that, on the days where Ruby’s in charge, Henry likes to spend his time in a bay window on the second floor of the bed and breakfast. It’s secluded, as she suggested, and it looks right over the harbor, something that she’s sure he finds comforting.

(Her son’s watching over her, or that’s what he’d try to tell her.)

Emma busies herself by looking over today’s specials - meatloaf and lasagna, hopefully not on the same plate - when the diner door opens and the bell above it rings merrily.

“Of all the gin joints.”

She’d know that voice anywhere. It makes her roll her eyes abnormally hard, actually spinning her vision around. She’s spent enough time with him in close quarters today as it is.

His voice must be boisterous enough to make it through the kitchen door to Granny, who yells back, “We don’t have gin here, boy.”

Despite her best efforts, Emma chuckles along with Jones. “Yes, Granny, I’m aware, it’s merely a saying, **”** he amends.

After stifling the rest of her laughter, Emma faces him and gives him the stink-eye. “You say that like there’s another place I could grab coffee at this hour of the day.”

“There is.” Of course there is, she thinks. And of course he’s not there while she’s here. Of course. “The Busy Bee isn’t too far from here.”

Emma sighs dramatically, turning her attention back to the wall behind the counter she leans on. “Well, then I know where I’m going for all my coffee runs now.”

“Now, don’t be a spoilsport, Swan,” Jones tsks. **“** Look, if you want to be alone, I’ll let you be.”

Thankfully, Ruby returns at this point with her to-go cup in hand and a styrofoam box in the other. “Here’s your coffee to go and your waffles,” Ruby says. 

“I didn’t order waffles,” Emma corrects her.

“Henry did,” Ruby clarifies. “He’s just finishing up his chapter, so he’ll be down in a jiff.” She hands the coffee and container to Emma before twirling around and heading back to the kitchen.

Jones clicks his tongue behind her, causing Emma to roll her eyes _again_. “Ah, so it’s not just the coffee you’re here for,” he says. And then, sort of out of left field, he asks, “When will I get to meet the lad?”

Her internal monologue says never, but her mouth forms the words, “Not before he’s healthy enough to go back to camp.” At his perturbed look, she explains, “He’s sick. He had a fever and was throwing up last night.”

That seems to catch him off-guard. Jones’ eyes go wide and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Why did you come today?” he inquires.

“Because it’s my job?” It’s obvious, isn’t it? She’s the breadwinner - the only one - in her house, which she still has to pay off, along with groceries and bills and rollback deals from Henry’s birthday presents. Money doesn’t come from trees.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times before he shakes his head. “We could’ve held out and gone tomorrow or promised not to do anything interesting today,” he tells her.

“No, that goes against the whole concept of reality TV.”

Jones scoffs and rolls his eyes, making Emma’s brow raise. “Come now, Swan, you and I both know you guys are going to edit the shit out of whatever you film. We’ve already got a pool on who’s going to be the prick of the show. My money’s on Victor.” 

They’ve come to a lull in the conversation, Emma unsure of how to continue. He’s got a point: when all is said in done, not much reality goes into the reality show. 

(And Jefferson was leaning toward making Whale the douchebag. He just lent himself to it so well.)

The moment comes to a close when Jones starts scrambling, his hands patting at all his pockets. He leans over the counter to grab one of the pens and pieces of paper by the register. Swiftly, he scribbles something across the paper and slips it into her hand. 

Emma glances down at it, a line of numbers across the page. “What’s this?”

“The next time you need to be mother, **”** Jones says, pointing emphatically at the paper, “call me and we’ll figure out a plan of action for the day that works for both of us.” His expression softens to something Emma’s never seen before. “Your lad needs you, love. He was in your life before me and my crew came along and he’ll be in it long after we’ve parted ways. Never feel the need to put this job above your son.”

She can’t help the grin that crosses her lips at his words. “Thank you, Jones. Truly.” Folding the paper in half, Emma slips it into her pocket. She picks up her coffee and Henry’s waffles and takes a step toward the door. “And I’m just going to gloss over your move.”

“Move? What move?” Jones asks, one brow cocking up sharply.

“Using the opportunity to let me stay at home with my kid to give me your number.” Emma grins wider, her teeth peeking out to bite at her bottom lip. “Don’t think I’ll forget it.”

Mimicking her smile, she catches Jones’ tongue skim across his teeth. “Trust me, Swan. I don’t want you to.”

She rolls her eyes as her back runs into the diner door. “Goodbye, Jones.”

Just as she knew he would, Henry’s patiently waiting for her on the sidewalk outside the inn. He’s leaning against the fence, still entranced by whatever book he’s reading this time.

(She really is lucky that her son has taken to books and not technology when boredom hits. Sure, he loves his video games, but that’s something she can control. If Henry had a smartphone, Emma isn’t sure she would ever talk to him in person again.)

As she approaches, Henry shuts his book and smiles up at her. Silently, she hands her son his box of food. He opens it to make sure it’s what he wants, then takes a delighted whiff.

“Sorry, I got caught up talking to someone,” she explains.

“Who were you talking to?” Henry asks, turning toward home.

“A guy from work,” Emma says. At his raised brow, she rolls her eyes and wets her lips. “It’s the captain of the ship I work on.”

“Really?” His voice goes up an octave, he’s so thrilled. “Can I meet him?”

Emma shakes her head and ruffles his hair. “Maybe.”

“I’ll behave, I promise,” he pleads.

She chuckles. “It’s not you I’m worried about misbehaving.” Taking a sip of her coffee, Emma thinks on the idea. “Besides, you kind of met him. We were on his brother’s boat on the Fourth of July.”

“But I didn’t talk to him.” Of course he didn’t. Because she didn’t introduce her son to either of the Jones brothers and Henry knows better than to talk to strangers. “C’mon, Mom.”

“We’ll see,” Emma sighs. And then, as mothers do when they tire of trying to explain adult dynamics to their children, she changes the subject. “How are you feeling? Better?”

“Mom.” He holds up the takeaway box. “Waffles cure anything.”

She laughs outright, and pulls Henry’s shoulders into her chest. “How could I be so silly?” She kisses the top of his head and pushes open the gate to their house.


	9. Chapter 9

Emma’s got her laptop out on the table, a plate of Granny’s finest onion rings at her side. Over the past couple of weeks, she’s accumulated approximately 67 hours of B roll, every minute of which she has to go through, edit, and send off to Jefferson, who has to approve it before filing it with HQ. So far, she’s made it through about an hour and a half. 

(Thank god Ruby knows to keep the onion rings coming.)

She’s just cutting up a scene consisting of the boys playing cards down in the galley while waiting for Jones and Liam to figure out their plan of attack for the day when someone slides into the booth bench opposite her.

“So, tell me, Swan,” Jones startles her. “What is it that makes you tick?”

Exporting the clip and jotting its name down on the growing list of file names, Emma sighs. Of all the people she wanted to see right now, Jones was not one of them, especially on one of her rare days working away from the _Jolly Roger_. She sets her pen down and glares across the table in frustration. “My charming personality and sense of humbleness,” she says, her face unmoving and her voice monotone. She’s not in the mood for his shit.

“But of course,” he chuckles, nabbing a ring from her plate. Too late, she smacks his grabby fingers away. **“** I would’ve thought it was those sky high walls you’ve got me climbing, but the personality.” He munches on the onion ring thoughtfully. “No, that makes sense now.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “In case you can’t tell, Jones, I’m a little busy here.”

“Oh, no, I can see quite well.” Setting his clasped hands atop the table, Jones leans toward her, closing her laptop fractionally. “I can tell that you’re using whatever is around you to protect you from something.” He cocks his head to the side like a curious puppy, almost like he’s trying to read her. **“** Guard you from falling a little bit in love with this town. Or at all.”

“Really now?” Emma says, unbelieving.

(That is what she’s doing, technically speaking. Force of habit - distraction to keep herself safe. It’s worked so far, that’s for sure.)

“Indeed.” Jones nods and steals another onion ring. **“** Your work, your lad, your impending order of – what was it, pancakes?”

“Waffles,” she corrects himself. Emma pulls her plate closer to her, even though he has the arm length to reach across the table and take her food as he pleases. “If you had been up as late I was dealing with a sick 10-year-old, you would’ve been as grumpy as I was.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” He raises a brow and points at her. “But you did have a cup of coffee in front of you, so I assumed you’d be slightly more pleasant.”

Emma shrugs. “Assumed wrong.” And in her mind, that’s the end of the conversation. If she were in his shoes, she would bid him farewell and leave, get out of his face. 

But when had Jones ever done a thing she would do? Instead, he continues to sit opposite her and appraises her. For a moment, Emma tries to return to editing her B roll, but she feels his gaze on her and it makes her nervous.

With a grunt, she slams her laptop down and glares at him. “What do you want, Jones?”

“I just want to get to know you, Swan,” he says quietly. “You’re the first civilian I’ve let on my ship, love, and from what I can tell, you’re going to be making yourself a frequent member of my crew.” Jones begins to trace his fingertip all over the tabletop, appearing to draw little nothings while he thinks over his next words. **“** I need to know who I’m working with. I need to know who is going to jump in the sea after a crewmate if they fall in and who’s going to stand back and watch.”

“Well, I can already tell you that I’ll be standing back and filming **.** That’s literally my job,” Emma quips back. Then she raises an accusatory brow of her own. **“** So, is that enough information?”

He sighs in frustration. “Something small,” he pleads. **“** That’s all I ask.” He searches their surroundings as if for inspiration. “Perhaps where you and Henry were before you came here.”

It seems like such irrelevant information. It’s something that he can find out by asking Jefferson or David or even Ruby. It’s safe. Still, she thinks about it, then decides to respond. “Phoenix,” she says. “Henry and I were in Phoenix before we came up here.”

“Quite a different landscape, isn’t it?” he asks, to which she makes some nonverbal sound of agreement. “How long were you there?”

“Less than a year.” Emma shakes her head and opens her laptop once more.  **“** Look, Killian, I really do have to work on this stuff.”

Across the table, she sees his eyes light up despite her obvious dismissal and, idly, she wonders why he suddenly seems really happy to be rejected by her. “Perhaps we can talk later then,” he suggests. 

“Sure, if you really want to,” she says with a shrug. It’s inevitable: they’re going to have to talk to each other in the future because they work together on a boat -  _ ship _ \- that she knows very little about. She doesn’t exactly want to die out at sea.

“Trust me, love, I really want to,” Jones murmurs eagerly. Finally, he slides from the bench and stands next to the booth. Emma watches him cautiously for his next move. 

What he says next surprises her. 

**“** When do you pick the lad up from camp?” he asks.

Emma’s thrown by the weird question, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Quarter after three. Why?”

“How about I meet you two when he’s free and I take you to my ship?”

If possible, her brows sink lower on her face. “Why?”

Jones shrugs. “Well, you may have seen the inner workings, but your boy hasn’t.”

And that’s got her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline.

(They’re getting quite the workout today.)

“You want him to give him a tour of your boat?”

“Ship, Swan, the _Jolly Roger_ is a ship,” he groans, rubbing away at his forehead and the frustration her mistake causes him. “Yes. I think it’s good for a lad to know where his mother will be working, if not to meet some of the folks she’s working with as well.”

“Really?”

He nods, digging his hands into his pockets. “We’ll just pretend he’s come to your office for a little while. Meet your boss and such.”

“You’re not my boss,” Emma scoffs. **“** If anything, I’m your boss.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “I do love a woman in charge.”

Emma slaps his arm. “Fine. Meet me outside the schoolyard at ten after three.”

He leans forward in a slight bow. “As you wish, Swan,” he says, before walking away.

“Don’t think you’re going to charm me by quoting  _ Princess Bride _ !” she yells after him, then scolds herself because she’s going to have a hell of a time editing her B roll now.

She whiles away the day doing busy work, trying not to think of what Killian had basically accused her of earlier. She knows she has walls. She knows she walks around with heavy armor around her heart. For good reason. Her life was on the right track until a man came along, got her pregnant, and then left her to take the fall for his crimes. Of course she’s going to have trouble trusting anyone after that. She thought she had loved Neal, gave him everything, only to receive nothing as thanks. 

But for Jones – practically a stranger, someone she considers a coworker at most – to call her out on that. It’s unheard of.

Her past experiences are what make her eyebrows raise in confusion, but pleasant surprise when she strolls up to the elementary school to find Killian chatting with some of the other parents there. He’s laughing jollily at something a woman is saying, his arms crossed over his chest as he throws his head back. She walks up to them and clears her throat to get his attention.

“Swan! **”** Jones shouts in greeting. He gestures to the woman he was talking to by casually swinging an open hand toward her. **“** Have you met Aurora?”

“Not yet.” She leans forward with her best people smile and shakes hands with the woman. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Aurora says. She seems nice, much like the rest of the people in Storybrooke. Very domestic in her vintage dress and long hair, waiting for her children to get out of summer camp. **“** Killian here was just telling me about your son. I think my Phillip has been talking about him.”

“Oh, you’re Phillip’s mom,” Emma says in recognition. **“** It’s nice to finally meet you. Yeah, Henry was really excited telling me how Phillip had invited him to his birthday party.”

Aurora chuckles. “Yeah, he’s really excited about it. Turning double digits and all that.”

“Is the lad really turning 10?” Jones asks in disbelief. 

Aurora hums and nods.

“My god, I remember when your husband burst into the Rabbit Hole and bought everyone a round in celebration of his birth,” he chuckles.

Aurora laughs. “Yes, I remember that as well. I wasn’t all too happy with him after that.” Her phone rings. As she takes it out of her pocket and finds who’s calling on the screen, she sighs. “Speaking of my darling husband. Sorry, I have to take this.”

They wave her off, Aurora heading off to the other end of the playground to speak with her husband. Emma, on the other hand, turns to Killian and says, “You’re here.”

“Of course I am.”

“You’re here early.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Sometimes Mary Margaret lets the children out early for some extra time on the playground, especially on a nice day like today.”

Emma tilts her head toward her shoulder. “How’d you know that?”

“I hear things around town,” he reasons with another shrug. **“** Mary Margaret Nolan, bless her heart, made her and David’s presence known the minute they moved into town. **”** Killian chuckles and shifts his feet a little closer together. **“** She came knocking on our door with cookies to introduce herself a couple days after they’d come.”

“Huh, **”** she hums. **“** Sounds like her.”

His eyes widen a bit and his brow cocks up. “You know her?” he asks.

“I should hope.” Emma says, licking her bottom lip and shaking her head. **“** We moved in next door. And I knew her and David when I was in school.”

“Really? You’ll have to tell me all the embarrassing stories one day.”

“Hmm, don’t count on it, buddy **,** ” she says with a smirk, satisfied that she’s managed to shut him down.

(For now.)

(He’s trying to get under her skin even more so than he already is. Trying to create excuses to spend more time with her in an effort to make her like him, she’s sure.)

(And now that she knows he lives down the street from them and he knows they live next door to the Nolans… well, it’s a small town. She wouldn’t be surprised if he came knocking on their door unannounced.

Emma doesn’t know if she could handle that.)

The bell rings and the kids start to stream out, slowly, then in a huge crowd. As a now-sixth-grader, Henry may be a little taller than the rest of the kids, but he’s told her before how his classroom is also the furthest from the doors. So when the crowd starts to thin, that’s when she starts really searching for her son.

He appears, wet brown hair in his eyes, his pack slung over one shoulder. Henry spots her and starts jogging toward her, but slows back to a walk when he sees who’s next to her.

“Hey, kid,” Emma says happily, avoiding the obvious question in his eyes. Henry tucks himself under her arm in a side hug, her arm resting on his shoulder.  **“** How was camp?”

“Fine. We went to the pool and they taught us how to dive.”

“You know all about that, now, don’t you?”

He nods. “I practiced on my back stroke while they taught the other kids.”

She laughs. “And how’s it looking?”

Henry shakes his head, his nose crinkling up in disgust and dissatisfaction. “Not much better.”

“I’m so proud of you, kiddo.” She reaches both arms around him and hugs him tightly.

Henry leans into her side, his still-damp hair soaking through her shirt. He speaks so quietly she has to lean down when he repeats it. “Who’s this?”

The moment of truth: Emma glances up at the man, who’s remained silent so far, waiting until she gives him the go ahead. His expression, however, has opened up into something she’s never seen before. It’s kinder than anything she’s seen on the ship. Granted, she hasn’t known him that long, but it’s still a bit eye-opening. 

After a moment of hesitation, Emma repositions the two of them so they’re facing Jones. “Um, Henry, this is Killian Jones,” she says. **“** He’s the captain of the bo-ship,” she quickly corrects herself. “Of the ship that I’m filming on. **”** With the smile of a mother who can’t help herself but be happy around her child, Emma introduces her two worlds. **“** Jones, this is my son Henry.”

Killian pushes out his hand for a shake. Henry obliges timidly. “Lovely to meet you, lad,” he says. **“** Your mother told me that you had really hoped she’d be hanging out with pirates.”

Emma reaches out to punch Jones in the shoulder, scoffing, “I did not!”

“Swan, please,” Killian playfully pleads, rubbing at the spot on his arm where she hit him. He crouches down in front of them until he’s squatting low enough to have to look up at Henry. He leans into her son **. “** Do you want to know my ship’s name?” he asks conspiratorially. Henry, of course, nods. “The  _ Jolly Roger _ .”

His eyes go wide. “Like Captain Hook?”

“Exactly.” Killian’s pointer finger moves and bops Henry on the tip of the nose, surprising both of them. Henry giggles and Emma can’t help but smile at the noise. “Would you like to see it?”

“Yes!” Henry shouts enthusiastically. The shy kid from minutes ago is gone as he looks up at Emma with bright excited eyes. “Mom, can I?”

Shrugging, Emma glances over to Killian, who sends her a wink. “Why not?”

“Awesome!” Jones stands up and gestures toward the water. In all his youthful joy, Henry takes the lead, half walking, half jogging in front of them with his back to all opposing traffic. **“** Can I steer it?”

“Afraid not, m’boy **.”** For what it’s worth, Jones matches his steps to hers, a slow sort of trudge that isn’t exactly exuberant but isn’t exactly hesitant as well. **“** We’ll have to stay docked today. My crew is making sure she’s all ready for whatever happens this season.”

“But can I steer it some time?” Henry asks, coming to a halt in front of them.

Killian looks at Emma for the correct answer. She’s not quite sure what he sees there, but Jones turns back to her son. “We’ll see, lad. We’ll see.”

Emma hangs back as they walk to the harbor while Henry and Jones walk together in front of her. Henry’s regaling him with tales of their travels – how to tell a good New York street vendor from a bad one, how nice winter in Phoenix is – and Killian, surprising her yet again, reacts genuinely and accordingly. Unlike other people – specifically men who’ve wished to pursue her romantically – Jones is treating her son as anyone should: like her 10-year-old is a person.

She catches up to them once they reach the docks, only to hear Jones say, “What in heavens do you mean, you’ve never seen snow?”

Henry shrugs. “We were always somewhere warm in the winter time **.** I might have seen it when I was a baby, but I don’t remember seeing snow anywhere but on TV.”

Jones looks at Emma. “I am appalled, Swan. You’ve never let your son experience snow?”

She shrugs, internally chuckling at the apparent family trait. “There were never any jobs where it was snowy.”

“A likely excuse,” Jones scoffs. They come up to the bow of the ship, Henry basically hopping on the balls of his feet. “Well, here she is.” Emma comes up to his side and accidentally brushes against his hand with hers. “The _Rolly Joger_.” His voice cracks, causing both her and Henry to laugh at his slip in words. “I mean, the _Jolly Roger_.” He blushes and scratches behind his ear. “Shall we board?” Henry nods fervently. Killian gestures to Emma. “Ladies first.”

She rolls her eyes, but heads up the steps of the gangplank before Henry does. “Watch your step, kid, there are ropes everywhere.”

“How would you know?”

“I work on this ship, remember? It’s like my office,” she says, wrapping her arms across her body to keep the sea breeze from making her more uncomfortable than she already is.

Always happy to be the center of attention and talk about something he's obviously passionate about, Killian shows Henry the captain’s roost and the inner belly of the boat. Emma notices that her son seems to be enjoying this time with Jones – some boys’ time that he’s never really had much access to. It’s not like his father was around, or any of the men she sought company with were appropriate for her son to hang out with. 

Emma realizes that, though she might not exactly like Jones, maybe her son knowing and liking him might not just be the worst thing ever.

When the tour is finished, Henry’s eyes bright and cheeks flushed, Jones ushers them off his ship, onto the gangplank, and back to the docks. Once again, Henry’s basically jumping up and down between the two of them, practically hanging off of Killian’s side and surely his every word.

“Did you enjoy yourself, lad?” Jones asks.

“Yeah! **”** Henry shouts. **“** Are you sure we can’t take her out today?”

“’fraid not.” Killian looks at her. “The day is late and I should think your mother wants to get some dinner in you and then get you to bed.”

Emma nods in agreement. “Jones is right, Henry, it’s getting late.”

She turns and faces the sun to start their walk home, her flip flops slapping against the wood of the docks and then the concrete of the sidewalk. But she stops when she realizes that her son isn’t following her, or he’s dragging his feet and she’s had the kind of day where she can’t deal with that. Looking over her shoulder, Emma finds he hasn’t moved, still on the wood of the docks, staring up at Killian.

“Go on, Henry,” Killian chides him with a small smile. “We’ll take the ship out soon. You can be my first mate.”

But that’s not what her son wants promised. Even from her position a couple yards away, Emma can spot the determined features on Henry’s face.

“You promise she’s gonna come home?” Her son is so serious when he asks that it nearly breaks Emma’s heart. It’s not like she doesn’t understand where he’s coming from: his father’s already left him, he doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. Just as Henry is all she has in her world, she is all he has in his.

But Killian, being the ever-confusing man that he is, crouches down so that he’s at Henry’s eye level. He sticks his hand out to her son. 

“I promise.” His voice is surprisingly stern and serious.

Considering his proposal for a second, Henry finally takes Killian’s hand and shakes it. “And you, too?”

“Of course, lad,” Killian assures him, standing back up. “Liam and I have always come back to shore. If anything, we’ve only got more reason to make it home.” His eyes flicker over and catch Emma’s, as though to make sure that his words don’t go unnoticed.

And they don’t. Not by her. No, she hears every word, said and unsaid.

(It sounds like he’s coming back for them. For her. And the mere idea does not sit well with her at all.)

(Mostly because it settles nice and warmly somewhere in her middle.)

But the insinuations fly over Henry’s head. He nods solemnly and then smiles brightly, as he tends to do. “Thanks for showing me around the boat.”

“It’s a ship, lad,” he corrects him gently, “and it was my pleasure. I’ll take you out on it someday soon, aye?”

“Okay!” With that, Henry finally catches up to his mother, allowing Emma to wrap her arm around his shoulders. **“** Goodnight, Jones.”

“Goodnight, Henry,” Jones bids him. **“** Pleasant dreams, Swan,” he says with a wink.

She rolls her eyes and only allows herself to smile when she knows he can’t see it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WORLDS COLLIDING FOR SOME CAPTAIN COBRA SWAN GOODNESS. Ugh, yes. I hope you guys enjoyed it.  
> As always, a humongous thank you to sotheylived, shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, and captainswanbigbang for supporting and getting this project through at some point in time in the past...god, seven months? Is that right? Math is not my strong suit. But words are, so if you have some to share - good or bad, but preferably good - feel free to leave a comment or send me a message on the tumblr. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for this being posted late. As I said on tumblr, my internet was down on Friday, which of course is update day, but that wasn't a good enough excuse for Verizon. Whatever, it's updated now, so please read on and read forward!

The first time the cold, cold water sloshes over her, it’s bracing to say the least. She thought she’d pulled the strings of her boots tight enough and had enough layers on to at least stall the water’s path to her skin, but she was dead wrong. From the moment the first drop hit her cheek bone, it stole the breath from her lungs. 

They’ve been lucky enough to avoid any inclement weather since filming started. But not today. No, the local meteorologists were predicting one of the most forceful storms of the season and they weren’t kidding. She’s only calm because everyone else is. If something were wrong, Robin would be on his phone texting Regina or Whale would be drinking the schnapps he hides in the kitchen.

(She won’t lie to herself, she’s impressed she knows anybody well enough to know their panicked tells. She knows that Jones wouldn’t be humming like she can hear him doing through Scarlet’s radio and she knows that Scarlet would be cursing a storm bigger than the one knocking them around right now.

Almost like they’re her friends.)

But they go about business as usual, and she follows their lead. It’s a little more slippery and the lighting is a bitch to deal with, but the footage she’s capturing is actually pretty good. It’ll make for a good episode. She’ll just need to talk with Jeff about the right angle, how to fit it into the bigger season picture.

A wave crashes over the side of the ship again, drenching Emma and the camera once more, and she can’t suppress the shiver that wracked her body.

“Go talk to Jones, Emma!” Robin shouts. “Warm up and dry off a bit, then come back out!”

Right now in her mind, she’s never met a smarter man than Robin Locksley. Anywhere out of this wet and cold weather sounds better. “Don’t do anything interesting while I’m gone!” she yells back.

“If we do, we’ll be sure to face the camera, eh?” he says with a smile.

She carefully heads up to the captain’s roost, gripping tightly to the railing and shaking her head as she goes. Killian’s got a single window open next to him when she walks in to better hear if any emergency arises on deck, rain spitting through the opening and onto his arm.

“Well, well, well, Swan,” he greets her, sliding the window closed a bit to lessen the noise between them. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m wet,” she says simply, shaking her arms and letting the raindrops fling off her sleeves and on to the equipment around her.

“Jumping right into the action, then,” Jones chuckles boastfully. “I’m always agreeable.”

She rolls eyes. “The waves have been targeting me specifically.”

“Don’t feel bad, love,” he tells her, focusing back on the sea before them. “Everybody stumbles during their first time.”

“I’ve been doing this for weeks now. You know that.”

“Who said I was referring to being on my ship?” he says with an eyebrow wiggle.

She scoffs. “God, Killian, the innuendos need to wind down.”

He jumps a little bit, then looks her over. “Do they make you uncomfortable?” he asks, his voice gentle and so quiet, it takes Emma a moment to actually comprehend what he’s said over the sound of crashing waves coming in from the open window.

“A little bit,” she admits. **“** It’s more the frequency than anything else.”

He pauses to think about it, all the while pressing this button or shifting the wheel that way to keep them on course. “Then I’ll endeavor to make them less frequent.”

Raising her brow, Emma lets out a surprised, “Really?”

He surprises her further by holding up a single finger and a smirk. “On one condition.”

She sighs. “Of course there’s a condition.”

“It’s nothing to arduous,” he assures her, glancing her direction and licking the corner of his lip.

“What is it?”

A swell builds in front of them, taking his attention away from her to safely navigating them deeper into the water. A heated tension sizzles between them as Emma waits for his request. 

When Jones is finally satisfied with their course, he looks her straight in the eye. “Call me by my name a little more.”

“Huh? **”** Honestly, the words that keep coming out of his mouth keep leaving her more and more speechless. “What, have I been calling you a pirate to your face? A scoundrel? A nincompoop?”

He laughs heartily, his hand smacking up against his chest. “Not aloud, but it’s nice to know what you truly think of me, Swan,” he says once he calms down **. “** I only mean my name. My given name.”

This time, both of Emma’s brows shoot up to her hairline. Slowly, she gets as close as she can to him without interfering with her camera equipment or his captaining. “You mean to tell me that if I call you Killian more, you’ll tone the innuendoes down?” she repeats skeptically.

“Not tone them down, necessarily, **”** Jones amends, **“** but I’ll make them less.”

“Seems like a fair deal.” She sticks out her hand to shake on it. He takes her hand, raises it to his lips, and presses them to the knuckles of her fingers.

“An accord, then,” Jones  **-** _ Killian _ \- murmurs against her skin.

Emma blushes but ducks her face in an attempt to hide it **,** glancing out the front window. “I wish you’d keep both hands on the wheel,” she says, effectively changing the subject and calming the rise of red on her cheeks **.** “We are in the middle of a storm.”

“Ah, but it’s clearing up.” He points out the front window, toward a sliver of bright sky in the distance. “We’re moving out of it. By the time we turn back, it’ll have dissipated.”

Shaking her head, Emma readjusts the camera so the frame flatters Jones better before asking, “You seem to really know the ocean’s ways. How come?”

He glances at her, spots the camera’s lens pointed at him, and gives her a slight look to condemn her for using their casual conversation to facilitate filming. But he sighs and answers anyways. “When you’ve been around the sea as often and as long as I have, she becomes her own person,” he explains, staring forward as the waves begin to calm, just as he predicted. “Much like I can tell when Liam hasn’t slept well or when Victor drank too much the night before, there are signs. In the sky, in the crashing waves, sometimes even the grass beneath my window. The sea has her own personality. Now, for instance, **”** Killian says, gesturing out the side window, **“** I can feel the swells getting smaller, see the sunlight ahead, the wind’s less fierce.” He sighs reluctantly. **“** She was angry earlier, but now she’s vented her feelings and she’s calming back down. **”**

With the small space now quiet - Jones is nothing if not eloquent - Emma takes a moment to admire his profile as he gazes out at the ocean. Strong lines, light scruff, masculine and somehow still giving off a bit of a boyish fear. 

(Like she’s hit a nerve or something.)

**“** Is that good enough for you, lass?” His question breaks her concentration.

“Me? Yeah, no, that was great.” Somehow, his words have touched her. It’s a different side of him, one she’s only seen one other time. When he was showing her and Henry around the  _ Jolly Roger _ that afternoon, he had the same sort of – reverence, is the word she comes up with, but isn’t at all sure that’s what she means.

“Good **.”** Her feelings must show on her face and Emma quickly tries to quell them, for he asks,  **“** Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, I just.” She scrunches her nose and bites at her bottom lip. **“** Nothing,” she answers. After another moment of looking at him, trying in vain to figure out what’s going on in her brain, she jerks her head back to the deck below. **“** I should get back out there.”

He nods in understanding. “We’ll be back to shore shortly, Swan. No need to worry about orphaning your lad today.”

Emma groans, already halfway out of the captain’s roost. “I wasn’t worrying about ever orphaning Henry, but now that you’ve put that thought in my mind, it’s the only thing I can think about.” She glares at him and his shit-eating grin over her shoulder. “Dick.”

“What a way to talk to your captain,” Jones laughs.

0000

The weeks continue to fly by and before Emma knows it, Henry’s back in school and the weather is turning cold. Trawling season extends until late December in some parts of the state - and even later in some states - but the Jones brothers decide to call it quits shortly after Halloween. Between what they caught in those couple of months and the commission they’ll get from channel executives, Liam, Killian, and everyone in their employ will be safely set until next year.

As the end of October rolls about, Emma spends her birthday quietly, finishing up the last edits of B roll to send to HQ. Henry surprises her with a cake he and Mary Margaret made the night before, and Ruby gifts her with free coffee and a box of bearclaws Granny made especially for her. It’s not much, but it’s certainly better than birthdays she’s had in the past.

She’s also – secretly, of course – checking for new jobs. Without the guarantee of a second season, Emma’s got to be able to make money somehow. She’s looking locally because she loves this house, now that it’s had time to be lived in and gather the typical Swan clutter and mess, and she likes this town and the people in it. But when nothing shows up within reasonable driving distance, she’s forced to look in Boston and Portland and points further away from home.

(Because that’s what Storybrooke is now. Home. The first one she’s actually felt that way about in a long, long time.)

In mid-November, after what’s probably the third snow of the year, Jefferson texts them all with a premiere date – a Tuesday in mid-January, not a bad slot, but not a good one either. It’s honestly what she expected for such a new show’s first season – and information for a belated wrap party.

“Are these wraps normal?” Killian asks her one evening during a crew dinner. He’s seated between her and Graham, a deckhand on the  _ Jewel,  _ and across from Regina, who’s cutting Roland’s piece of lasagna into smaller squares. She’s got a bit of a belly now, the news of her pregnancy official shared with both ships’ crews at the beginning of dinner. Seeing this woman – her friend, or so Emma considers them – in the middle of her pregnancy takes Emma back to the time when she was pregnant with Henry. The situations were nearly opposite ends of the spectrum, but there were times when Emma was so excited and happy to welcome her son into her life.

Responding to Killian’s question, Emma shrugs and shoves a bite of salad into her mouth. “It really depends,” she says around lettuce, then swallows. “I think it’s bigger for scripted shows and movies. But Jeff promised me open bar, so I’m not gonna say no to a night of free booze.”

Killian guffaws, his laughter frightening people at the other end of tonight’s table. “A woman after my own heart, Swan.”

(She tries to ignore the blush that rises on her cheeks at his words, but at the look Liam gives her from further down the table, she knows she doesn’t exactly get away unnoticed.)

Emma shrugs again and says, “It’s all I asked for for my birthday, free booze. But Henry’s not exactly allowed to buy it and he’s the only one I told anyways.”

Wiping his mouth with a napkin – who the fuck is this guy, she thinks, using an actual napkin to dab at his mouth like he’s a fucking earl – Killian asks, “I’ll be happy to oblige. When’s the day?”

“October 28th.” His response is a dropped jaw. Emma’s eyes widen and she looks up and down the table, then back to Jones. “What?”

“That was three weeks ago,” he says simply. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

For the third time, Emma shrugs. “We were all focused on ending the season on a good note. Besides, my birthday’s never been an event. Even when I was a kid.” She looks back at her plate, still half full, but she realizes she’s lost her appetite with this conversation. Setting her fork down, Emma adds, “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” If it’s possible, Killian’s jaw drops further. He shakes his head and then stands up, surprising both her and Graham on his other side. Clinking his knife against his glass, he calls for everyone’s attention. Everyone quiets down, focusing on the  _ Jolly Roger’ _ s captain.

“While I’m overjoyed to have everyone together for yet another crew dinner, there has been an oversight on every one of our’s part,” he announces. Glancing down at Emma, he sends her a wink. “Three weeks ago, on October 28th, we missed the annual celebration of our own Emma Swan’s birth. And so, to reconcile ourselves, I propose we give Swan a proper Storybrooke birthday, even if it’s a fortnight late.”

Robin stands up, his glass in hand and his lips wide in a smile. “Seconded,” he declares. To her, he says, “Best protect your ears, Emma. Don’t want them bleeding all over your sheets.”

And with that, every single person at the table starts their most horrible, most off-key rendition of happy birthday. Arthur, another deckhand on the  _ Jewel,  _ is going falsetto; August, the  _ Jewel’ _ s engineer, is singing in a different language altogether; and Mulan, Liam’s second-in-command, is singing the song backwards. By the end, Henry’s at her side, hugging her tight, and Emma’s in tears from laughter and trying to get oxygen back into her lungs.

Killian conducts the whole thing and brings it to a close after a prolonged final note before thanking everyone and taking his seat again. Emma leans her forehead to his shoulder, more for support in trying to get her breath than anything else.

“I know it wasn’t on the day itself, but it’s the best we could do at the current time,” he tells her.

“No, it’s perfect,” she says, still laughing. “Thank you, Killian. It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

He rests his head atop hers. “You’re more than welcome, Swan,” he murmurs. “Happy birthday.”


	11. Chapter 11

A week later, Emma and Henry arrive at the wrap party, dressed up for the occasion because what else is she supposed to dress up for in Storybrooke? They’ve gathered at Jefferson’s house, a nice little two bedroom on the other side of town. The furniture has been pushed to the sides of every common room, and Emma can only be thankful that Jeff had the forethought to plan it here and not on the _Jolly Roger_ or the _Jewel_. There’s got to be upwards of 50 people here, crews and casts and friends and family, and there’s no way more than 10 could fit on the _Jolly Roger_ on a good day.

(The weather isn’t spectacular either, but the late fall breeze wouldn’t be unwelcome with all this body heat surrounding them.)

She’s got a drink in one hand, waiting for some big announcement Jefferson had teased upon entering the party. She’s laughing with Liam at a shitty joke Mulan’s told when Jefferson claps his hands and mounts a crate.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I have an enormous announcement,” Jefferson says, his arms flying wide and spilling some of his drink over the lip of his glass. It falls just short of Emma’s bare toes **.**

“Not one for the dramatic, are you now, Jeff?” she asks, loud and sarcastic, getting a raucous laugh out of the crowd.

Jefferson gives her an annoyed side eye. Otherwise, he continues as if Emma hadn’t interrupted. “I have the great pleasure to tell you guys that the execs loved the show.”

“Well, that’s always nice to hear,” Liam booms.

“And that they want a second, full-season!”

“No way!” Emma shouts, covering her surprised smile with her hand. Henry runs into her, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist.

She’d hoped for a second season, but figured they wouldn’t have a clue for another couple of months. The premiere hadn’t even aired yet, and it was, in her experience and knowledge, very rare for a brand new series to get picked up at this point in the game **.** Thus, the job searching.

“So congratulations, everyone!” Jefferson yells over the chaotic din that’s broken out. “We’re a hit!”

“Technically,” Henry says at her side, “the show hasn’t premiered yet, so we can’t tell if it’s a hit.”

“Ah, m’boy, that means little,” Killian chides him in good nature, appearing at their sides from nowhere. His free hand ruffles her son’s hair and Henry beams.

For once - and it’s been known to happen on the odd occasion since their tenuous friendship began **-** Emma agrees with Jones. “Seriously. Think of it this way, we get to stay here.”

“We’re staying?” Henry asks at the same time Jones says, “You were planning on leaving?”

Emma directs her nod toward the captain. “I’ve got to go where I can provide for my son,” she says simply. And then she grins wide and looks down at the boy. **“** And right now, that’s Storybrooke.”

Henry’s excited **,** as she knew he would be. He’s practically jumping on her feet. “I can’t wait to tell Phillip and Grace.”

“Well, Grace is over there with Ruby, so you can tell her now.” Gently pushing him toward the little group of kids gathered together in the corner of the room, Emma nods her assent. “Go ahead.”

He starts off toward them, but then Henry hesitates and comes back. “Can I have friends over tomorrow?” he asks **.**

“In the afternoon,” Emma responds. With a slight glance - hopefully not too noticeable to anyone but herself - in Jones’ direction, she adds, “I have a feeling we’re going to want to sleep in tomorrow morning.”

Nodding, Henry turns around and bounds toward his friends, yelling their names to grab their attention.

“And just what do you plan on doing that’ll force you into a late morning?” Killian asks with a smirk, leaning toward her slightly.

She knew he was going to ask something along those lines, especially if he caught the look she gave him. Which, of course, he did, if the look he’s giving her - a look she’s seen on many men in bars during late nights - is any indication.

Biting on her bottom lip, Emma smiles. “I’m going to celebrate with my friends because I have a steady job for a little while longer and people who care about me.”

“Yes, that is indeed true. An ever growing list, if I’m not to mistaken.” Killian takes another step toward her, invading her personal space and Emma can’t find it in herself to reprimand him for his bold move.  **“** Henry, of course, the Nolans, Ruby and Granny, the crews-”

“You,” she interrupts despite herself. And then she feels her face go blank because now  _ she’s  _ the one who’s being bold. Nervously, she seeks a bit of validation **. “** Right?”

Killian chuckles nervously and scratches at his ear. “Me,” he admits, **“** and hopefully it’s likewise?”

She feels kind of foolish, like they’re middle schoolers with their first crushes. She shrugs, trying and failing to hide her growing smile. “You’re alright, I guess.”

Killian scoffs, his hand coming up to his chest. “You know how to wound a man, love.”

Emma smiles wider, tilting her head to the side. “Let’s just say, god forbid, if you were to be lost at sea, I’d help look for you,” she says, **“** and if you were never found, I’d be sad.”

Chuckling softly, Jones shakes his head. “Such a way with words, Swan,” he says on a sigh. “So eloquent.”

And because she’s happy, so happy, she goes for it. She grabs his hand at his side and pulls him into her, their noses barely touching, but their bodies are aligned from hip to shoulder. “I’m more of a take-action kind of girl.”

“Do tell,” he murmurs, leaning forward just enough so the tips of their noses touch **.** She, in turn, sets her hands atop his shoulders.

“I’ll leave the words to you, Jones. How’s that sound?”

She feels more than sees him shrug his shoulders beneath her hands. “I think I’m agreeable with that.”

It’s been so long since Emma’s just kissed a man that she becomes a bit too enthusiastic at the prospect. Normally, Killian stands maybe six inches above her, if not less. Now, in her present shoes, they’re nearly the same height. When she pushes up on her toes to kiss him, Emma overshoots and her lips end up closer to the crease of his brow than his lips.

Killian chuckles. It seems he leaned down to compensate for their height difference. Emma groans in embarrassment, sinking to her regular height and clunking her head against his chest.

“Now, now, love,” he says, tipping her chin up to face him. “We’re both a little eager. You’ve been dreaming about this moment since the day we met. That’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

His comments make Emma scoff, a real smile growing across her lips as shakes her head. “You’re so full of yourself,” she mutters, closing the distance between them much more cautiously than before.

When their lips brush against each other, it’s steady and surprising. For all the hard exterior bravado he puts on, Killian is soft, both in the pressure he exerts on her lips and the way he holds her. His arms wind around her waist as they give and take. Her arms slide up from his shoulders to around his neck, her fingers finding a sweet spot that makes him shiver at the nape of his neck. Scratching at the hair she feels there, short and coarse, makes him growl, a dark sound starting in the back of his throat and rumbling into hers.

It’s not at all what she was expecting, makes her heart pound and her breathing run amok, but then again, when has Killian Jones ever done or been what she was expecting?

Killian leans further into her, his mouth more insistent against hers, forcing her to bend backwards to keep their lips together. She gasps, allowing the perfect opportunity for him to slip his tongue between her lips and tangle with hers. Emma feels a grin on his lips and can’t help but respond with her own, a hand coming from behind his head to hold his face, bring him infinitesimally closer to her.

She pulls back quickly when she begins to lose her footing, but not without inner protest. Feeling sort of dazed, she opens her eyes to find his bright blue ones shining down at her. If Emma could keep kissing him – perhaps even more than that – without the threat of Henry or anyone else popping in on them or questioning their motives, she most definitely would. No question.

Alas, even now, Ruby approaches them, their bodies still entwined around the other’s, with a martini glass in one hand and a devious smirk growing ever bigger on her lips. She was drunk before Emma got to Jeff’s, and Emma wouldn’t expect her to have stopped because she arrived. Nor would Emma have expected her to spot her and Killian in the midst of everything facebattling one another and not comment on it.

“Were you two just making out in the middle of a public event?” she asks, loud and brash, whatever drink in her glass swooping perilously close to the edge.

Emma shakes her head furiously, even though her arms are still wrapped around Killian’s neck. “Of course not.” She licks her lips as she tries to think of a plausible excuse as to why the two of them are so close. Killian casually swings them so the weight of their bodies shift from one foot to the other and it’s as she hears the slow music in the background that Emma finds the perfect lie. “We were just dancing,” she explains, swaying them more obviously from side to side as if to prove her point. “You know these Jones men.” In a more secluded corner of the room, Emma finds Liam dancing similarly with a brunette woman wrapped up in his arms. She nods her head over Ruby’s shoulder to direct her gaze as she herself looks up to Killian, a soft smile on her lips. “Nothing but gentlemen.”

“Aye,” he chuckles, pulling her closer by the waist. “Raised to save a damsel in distress.”

Ruby cocks a brow, not understanding something that Emma doesn’t want to attempt to understand either. “So you’re saying you saved Emma?” she asks.

Killian shakes his head. “She can save herself.” But under his breath, meant for her ears only, he adds, “I’m just here to help if you need.”

Ruby all but forgotten, Emma feels his words resonate deep inside her. No matter what curve ball she throws at him next, he’s going to stay by her side. He’s sticking around for a while and Emma can scrupulously say it’s the first time in a long time she’s believed anyone who’s vowed to do that.

0000

In-between seasons have usually been a letdown in Emma’s experience. She goes from occasional 14 hour days to nothing. Granted, her place does seem cleaner, and she gets to hang out with Henry more often, but it’s very much a 60 to zero lifestyle.

That being said, of all the off seasons she’s experienced, this one is the least boring. With the promise of another season on the horizon and a nice system – support, school, etc. – in place, it only makes sense for Emma and Henry to stay in Maine for the winter. She did promise him cold days cuddled up by the fireplace and snowman building sessions. It only seems fair to follow through.

(And she loves it. Honest to God, this winter makes her regret every winter she spent in sunny wherever, without snow and her snow bunny son, with his chubby red cheeks and nearly nonstop laughter.)

What she’s not prepared for is the sheer amount of time she spends with people from the show. Emma expected to hang out with Mary Margaret and David simply because they’re old friends of hers and they live right next door, but when Robin calls her a week and a half after the wrap party to invite her and Henry to a pre-Thanksgiving get together, she confusedly says they’ll be there. Then Ruby invites her to a girls’ night down at the Rabbit Hole, as many drinks as you want for five dollars because the season’s slowing down and Ruby finds herself bored more often than not at her off-season bartending job. 

And then the snow starts in earnest and barely stops enough for the roads to clear and their clothes to dry again. Henry’s running off to Jefferson’s house for a snowball fight while she drinks with Scarlet and Whale on the front porch, trading horror stories and laughing so loud that both Joneses two and a half blocks away can hear them.

(Killian texts her one specific evening, telling her to calm down and “next time you decide to imbibe the drink, please invite me so I can keep the lads from getting too randy.”

“You think I can’t smack your men into shape?” she responds.

His answer comes a moment later: “Oh, I know you can. I want to make sure I have a crew afterwards.”)

By the time Christmas rolls around, Emma doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. For so long, it’s just been her and Henry. They’d usually go to Walmart or Home Depot and buy a small potted plant to throw on the few ornaments they had collected, most of them handmade. She’d get a handful of presents for Henry and split them down the middle – half from her and half from Santa. They’d stay up late and watch Christmas movies until they couldn’t keep their eyes open on Christmas Eve and laze about on Christmas Day.

But now they have a house – a big house, far bigger than they really need but worth every square inch – that needs decorations inside and outside. It calls for a real Christmas tree, with lights and tinsel and a star on top. Stockings hanging from the actual fireplace mantle and the scent of Christmas cookies wafting through every room: the mere thought makes Emma emotional when she’s on her own some nights.

They have friends and people who care for them. When she and Henry sit down to make a list for the people they need to get presents for, Emma nearly cries at how long it is. There’s David and Mary Margaret, Jefferson, Mulan, August, Graham, Robin and Regina...

For the first time in a long time, Emma feels like she belongs.

“Liam and Killian!” Henry reminds her, his finger anxiously jabbing the next blank line on the paper. “We have to get something  _ really  _ good for Liam and Killian.”

“Why do we have to get something  _ really  _ good for them?” she asks as she reluctantly writes down their names. There’s a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach that bubbles up when she adds their names to their list, and it’s a bit hard to place, so Emma shoves it further down.

“Because they’re our best friends,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

(And it kind of is, when she thinks about it.)

“What about your friends from school? What about them?” she asks in an attempt to distract him.

Henry shrugs and shakes his head. “Liam and Killian are our best friends.”

Chuckling, Emma means to correct him - she meant does she need to add any of his school friends’ names to her list - but a knock sounds at the door. Both of them tilt their heads to the side: neither of them are expecting any visitor. As the adult of the relationship, unfortunately, Emma stands up and shuffles over the front door, swinging it open and letting in a chill. 

Lo and behold, it’s Killian himself.

“Speak of the devil,” she murmurs, crossing her arms over her chest **.**

“Is that your way of saying you find me devilishly handsome, Swan?” Killian asks with a twinkle in his eye. It’s been showing up a lot more often these days, as a byproduct of their wrap party dalliance, she’s sure.

But as for development of whatever it is between them, there’s been none. Aside from occasional texts and drive-bys, Emma hasn’t really seen or talked either Jones brother since the party. Unsure as to whether Killian was staying away from her, letting her come to him in her own time, or whether she was unconsciously hiding away from him, Emma couldn’t say.

(But she does miss them. Him. Henry runs down to their house and says hi at least three times a week when he’s off to school or a friend’s house. She knows that, and they’re less than a mile away, but they just haven’t said anything about the elephant in the room and it feels awkward. 

So Emma doesn’t broach the topic.)

(Whatever she tells Ruby in the aftermath and hangover of that night, Emma ruminates in the memory of making out with her soft, blue-eyed captain more than she would like to admit.) 

“No.” She ushers him in quickly with a roll of her eyes as the wind picks up, and motions to Henry still sitting on at the table. “We were just coming up with a list of people we need to get Christmas presents for.”

Killian smiles, acting honored with a hand to his heart in true Jones-drama fashion. “And I made the cut? **”** he qualifies. Spinning around on his heel, Killian looks back at her and sends her a wink. **“** Swan, I’m truly honored.”

“Nuh uh.” Emma points to Henry with a slight grin. “You should be thanking him. I was more than happy to leave you off the list, but he insisted because he thinks of you and Liam as his best friends.”

His expression softens before turning to face her son **.** He looks truly honored now. “I’ve never heard kinder sentiments, lad.” In a few long strides, Killian situates himself right next to Henry’s chair. He reaches out and ruffles his hair. “Thank you, Henry.”

Henry’s bashful when he says you’re welcome **-** his cheeks rouge and he begins twiddling with his fingers beneath the table **.** Emma’s heart hurts from how happy she is, how much joy she finds in this moment in time. Henry’s never really had anyone but her to look up to, but here and now, it feels like Killian is taking on some of that burden.

“So,” Killian starts, breaking the moving warmth in the room, “do the Swans have any big Christmas plans?”

Emma shakes her head, settling back into her chair. “We’ve got a lot of decorating to do before then **,”** she reminds him dolefully, both answering his question and not. “That’s where my mind is right now.”

Henry asks, “What are you guys doing?”

Killian shrugs. “Nothing special, I suppose,” he tells them **. “** We usually eat dinner with Robin and his clan, but I shouldn’t think us welcome in Regina’s current condition.”

Under her breath, Emma laughs. Regina’s well into her second trimester, maybe even the beginning of her third at this rate, reaching the point in her pregnancy where Emma knows nothing matters but finally getting the baby out of her. She remembers those days far too well.

It probably is better that Liam and Killian stay far and away from a woman in such a volatile state, especially during one of the most stressful times of the year. But in no way would she think her own son would suggest the alternative he does.

“Why don’t you come and spend Christmas with us?”

Emma’s jaw drops and she sharply scolds him. “Henry!”

His eyes meet her from across the table. “I’m serious, Mom **,** ” he says. **“** It’s just going to be us and Liam and Killian are going to be alone too. Why shouldn’t we be alone together?”

Killian glances at her, then back to Henry. “If it’s quite alright with your mother, I would love to,” he answers the boy gently, **“** and I’m sure Liam would think the same.”

Henry’s face illuminates more than any Christmas tree Emma’s seen in her life. Then he turns his begging puppy dog eyes on her. “Mom, please?” he begs.

“I don’t know,” she responds hesitantly. Her gaze flick between the brown of her son’s eyes and the startling blue of Killian’s. She relents. **“** Maybe during the day. But not in the morning,” she says sternly. “That’s gonna be for me and you, kid.”

“You should come over for dinner,” Henry offers. **“** Mom makes spaghetti.”

Killian cocks a brow. “Really? **”** He stares her down, his tongue peeking out from the smirk growing on his lips. **“** You cook, Swan?”

Holding her ground, Emma casually shrugs. “On occasion.”

He nods **,** his mouth trying - and failing horrendously, she observes - to hide his grin. With a nod of his head, Killian says, “Then I look forward to the day.”

Her smile is smug, she knows, she can feel it, but she’s very satisfied with how her son’s little surprise ends with a win for her. And then she remembers Killian interrupted their family Christmas list making session. “Did you come here for a reason or did you just need to get out of the house?” she asks.

“A little bit of both,” he admits, pushing off the back of Henry’s chair to scratching behind his ear. “I wanted to see if I could interest you in coming over for dinner tonight.”

“Tonight?” 

He nods, his eyes darting everywhere that isn’t her and his hand moving furiously at the skin behind his ear. 

She’s suspicious. She narrows her eyes and purses her lips. “What did you do?” Emma grumbles.

“Nothing, hopefully **.”** And his words ring true to her. **“** Liam sometimes gets a little too into the holiday spirit. He’s been baking and cooking all day and though the house smells heavenly, I am merely one man and cannot possibly eat close to a quarter of what he’s made,” Killian explains.  **“** So I called up the lads and some other neighbors and invited them over and thought I’d swing by and invite you and your boy.”

Jones’ sentence is barely finished when Henry says, “We’ll be there.”

“Henry,” she reprimands. 

(What is up with him, she wonders to herself. He’s never been this obstinate and she of all people would know how stubborn her son can be.)

“Mom, you were going to say yes anyways,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes. That takes Emma aback even further, but Henry doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he turns to look up at Killian. **“** What did Liam bake?”

“A few dozen batches of cookies, a lasagna or three, and there may have been some homemade jam as well,” Killian rattles off, ticking each one off his fingers.

Just the list of food has Emma practically drooling. She looks to Henry, whose eyes are wide as saucers and his mouth gaping open. “Yeah, we’re definitely going to be there,” she decides immediately. **“** What time?”

“Whenever pleases you.” Killian gestures to the door he’d entered through a few minutes before **.** “We can walk back together now, if you so wish.”

“Can we, Mom, please? **”** Henry pleads. **“** We want to get all the good cookies before Will comes and steals them all.”

Opening her mouth to respond, it’s cut off by the clicking of Jones’ tongue. “The lad’s got a fair point, Swan,” he says, turning a swarthy look on her. **“** You know Scarlet will scarf down everything in sight.”

After scrunching up her nose - she’s displeased to say the least at her coworker and son banding against her **-** Emma groans, turning to Henry. “Did you do all your homework?”

“Not my math.”

“Take it with you **,”** she says reluctantly. **“** Maybe Killian will be better help than me.”

“Oh, well, I, uh,” Killian says, stumbling over his words. That makes her smile. For once the tables have turned and she’s caught him off guard.

But Henry’s already cheering, excited to be having this huge dinner with the people he’s grown to love.

Emma - she’s just excited to see her son so happy.

They gather up their warm clothes, Henry his backpack from upstairs, and then they’re out the door. Henry, in a great impression of the Tasmanian devil, whirls down the porch steps and is halfway out the gate while Emma turns around to lock up the door.

“Honestly, Swan, I don’t know why you insist on locking up your home,” Jones grumbles at her side. **“** You know practically everyone in town. The town knows you and the lad. What do you think should come to pass if you don’t lock the door?”

She shrugs, watching Henry hurry down the sidewalk to the Jones’ house. “Old habits, I guess.” A brief look at his face shows him unsatisfied with her answer. **“** You know me. We were in Phoenix before we were here, and L.A. and Baltimore before that.” She shrugs again.  **“** I guess I’ve just always lived in cities.”

“Oh, so it’s not because you don’t trust a soul in this town,” he says, pushing and holding the gate open for her. **“** Because, honestly, love, I hope there’s at least one person in Storybrooke you trust enough.”

Emma giggles and hums. “And who do you hope that it is? **”** she asks him, already knowing the answer. Stopping short on the sidewalk, she faces him. **“** You, Jones?”

The question hangs in the air as they silently make their way through the cold and around the corner to his and his brother’s home. It’s similarly big as hers, though a light blue instead of a gray. The porch doesn’t extend all the way around, but it covers most of the front. Even from here, Emma can spot their backyard, shadows dancing across the lawn from people inside. They extend as far as the wooden walkway, on which the other side harbor waters lie. Even before her son claimed the Jones brothers as their best friends, she could’ve said this was a perfect house for them.

Henry’s already made it to the front porch. Emma can see him knocking on the door from the sidewalk. 

Jones doesn't answer her question until they step up to the front door. He reaches for her arm, squeezing her forearm before shrugging, a boyish quality taking over his body language. “It’d be an honor of mine,” he tells her, not a hint of teasing to be heard.  **“** But in the unfortunate case it is not, then I’d be glad to know that you’ve got someone to lean on.”

Emma chuckles. “You know, your brother said something eerily similar when we first met.”

Opening the gate for her, Killian laughs as well. “Honestly, Swan, it’s like you forget who raised me.” He leans in to her, close enough for her to smell the cologne he must have sprayed before coming to visit them. “I know who my confidante is,” he whispers conspiratorially to her, winking. “I happen to be standing next to her. She’s quite enticing, even when she’s yelling at me.”

His words really touch her, even with their slight jab at her temper, but she doesn’t have time to contemplate them for her attention is immediately focusing on the ruckus from inside. It sounds like something fragile just hit the floor and shattered. “How many people did you invite?” she asks.

Killian chuckles and pats her on the shoulder **.** “Come now, Swan, it’s a spontaneous dinner,” he reminds her. **“** Can’t have dinner without the entire crew.”

He opens the door to reveal literally the whole crew: all trawlers from both of their ships and assorted family members parade through the house. Emma spots David and Robin in the corner with beers in hand and August and Mary Margaret chatting in another. She’s been to crew dinners before, but she doesn’t even know half of these people **.**

“Are you sure Liam made enough food?” she asks him quietly, stripping off her jacket.

“Definitely,” he assures her, taking her coat and somehow finding it a spot on the crowded coat rack. **“** Funnily enough, Swan, this is not the biggest crowd we’ve ever had in this house.”

She grimaces. “I’d hate to have been there.”

He gently pushes her toward the center of the madness. “Don’t be prickly. Who knows, maybe you’ll have a good time.”

Emma groans and drags her feet as she makes her way toward the kitchen and the admittedly heavenly smells that waft from that direction. There’s got to be a bottle of beer and a handful of Christmas cookies with her name on them somewhere in this house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it seems like there's a lot of time jumps in this story, but they'll calm down soon. Ish. Promise.  
> As always, thank you, thank you, thank you to sotheylived, queen-icicle-fandom, shipsxahoy, and captainswanbigbang for doing their parts in this story. If you feel so inclined, go ahead and leave a comment or message me on the tumblr. I've spent all day with screaming children, I'm already impervious. :)


	12. Chapter 12

Despite any misgivings she may have had about the Jones brothers, they are what make this Christmas one of the best Christmases Emma’s ever had and probably the best one Henry ever has.

(She’s beginning to sense that this is a trend. They’ve been in Storybrooke six months and already whenever the Joneses are part of their day, it becomes one of the best days in Henry’s book.)

(A part of her cringes and wonders if any of the earlier days, when it was just the two of them, make the ranks. It’s a worry she believes any single parent has when another, cooler adult comes into their child’s life. But she has faith in Henry, because when he’s sick or sad, he doesn’t go running to Killian or Liam.

He comes back home to her.)

As agreed to, Emma and Henry spend the morning together, hunkered down in her bed and daydreaming about what they’ll make for breakfast. They’ll eat it in the living room, opening presents between bites, because the Swans may not have many traditions, but being lazy and living room-eating on Christmas is one neither are willing to break.

It comes down to French toast or pancakes with whatever food they’ve got in the fridge that could possibly taste good within a pancake. Emma’s leaning toward French toast because it’s technically easier and the bread is probably going to go stale any day now.

“Ooh, or we could have cinnamon rolls!” Henry exclaims, rounding on her and nearly smashing his face into her pillow.

“We don’t have any and I’m not making them from scratch,” she tells him, a strong yawn cutting off the end of her sentence.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Henry shakes his head emphatically. “No, there’s a can of Pillsbury in the fridge,” he says.

“Not if I buy the groceries, which I do,” she reminds him.

“No, Killian and Liam gave me one.”

That stops her from stretching out further beneath the covers. “What? When?”

He shrugs and collapses back into the fluff and comfort of the bed. “When you sent me over there to distract myself while you were wrapping presents and fixing that thing. I went shopping with them and Liam said they would buy me some.” Seeming to sense his mother’s displeasure, Henry buries his face in the pillow. He says something that sounds like a muffled, “They’re down in the fridge.”

“They just bought you a can of cinnamon rolls?” she asks incredulously. “Without any prompting or anything?”

If possible, Henry seems to sink further into the sheets in defeat. He turns his head to the side, his words still unclear but much more understandable and hesitant. “Well, we passed by the milk and I said something about how long it’s been since I had them and Killian asked if I wanted some.” Sitting up and leaning against the headboard, Henry stares her down. “I wasn’t going to lie, Mom. You taught me not to lie.”

“I did, but I didn’t mean for you to finagle it into getting free food.” Emma sighs, scrubbing at her face in slight frustration. Putting on her best mom face, she looks right back at her son, hoping to put the fear of god in him. “It’s Christmas, so I can’t punish you, but you better believe you’re writing a thank you note tomorrow.”

“Mooooom,” he whines, falling against the headboard. “It’s cinnamon rolls, not a Rolex.”

“How do you even know what a Rolex is?” she asks with an impressed laugh. Emma shakes her head. “Never mind. If you’re involved in Storybrooke’s criminal underbelly, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to have to testify against you in court.” She pokes him in the stomach, restoring the normalcy between the two of them and forcing a giggle from his lips. She continues to tickle him, both of them squirming and nearly hitting each other until they’re both breathless. 

With a sigh, Emma wipes at the tears that spilled over in their frivolity. “Well, if Killian bought them for us, we might as well put those rolls to good use.”

Henry cheers and jumps from the bed. He barrels down the stairs, his feet slapping against each step until Emma can hear him mount the back of the couch and fall back on it. She can imagine his feet in the air and his head dangling from the center cushion.

“Preheat the oven before I come down there and revoke your couch-sitting privileges!” she shouts. Savoring the quiet and stillness of her few minutes of Christmas morning alone, Emma sits up and stretches. She smacks her lips together, like a character out of a classic movie, and sighs again. So far, it’s a great Christmas.  

Breakfast comes and goes in a flurry of sticky icing and ripped gift wrap. Henry, her sweet baby boy, must have gone shopping with any number of the people close to them to get her presents. A scarf he had to have Mary Margaret’s help in choosing, books bought on Liam’s recommendation for sure. And his reaction to the Lego set and video game she had David’s assistance in choosing leave both of them with huge smiles on their faces.

Liam texts as she and Henry are cleaning up the living room around 12:30, asking if they need to bring anything over for dinner. Emma tells him no, unless they want alcohol with dinner, in which case, yes. She adds that they should bring a little bag or something so they could take their gifts home later that evening.

He texts her back just as she’s stripping out of her shirt to jump in the shower, Henry already bathed and happily situated in front of his new game. There’s sauce bubbling on the stove that her son’s promised to keep an eye on and if he doesn’t, that brand new game is doomed to get lost in the throes of her closet while he learns his lesson.

**You know you didn’t have to get us anything,** Liam responds.

She types back, **It’s Christmas, Liam. People give presents. Deal with it.**

Showering quickly - not because she doesn’t trust her son, but because there’s a lot to be done before the Joneses come over for dinner - Emma decides to spend a bit more time primping than she normally would. Since they are having guests over for Christmas dinner instead of it just being her and Henry, she figured they should all dress for the occasion. Again, when else do the people of Storybrooke get all dolled up? Her son’s got a sweater on instead of an old, stained sweatshirt of hers he’d made his own and she...well, she’s not bringing out the big guns, but the artillery is moderately sized. A more casual dress, flats but not heels, a little more effort applied to her hair and maybe a smidge of makeup. It is Christmas, after all. People dress up for holiday dinners, right?

Snow begins its descent outside as she comes back downstairs, a half hour or so until Liam and Killian should be knocking at their door. There’s still so much to do.

“Hey kid,” she calls on her way to the kitchen. “I need some help with dinner.”

“Mom, I’m in my nice clothes,” he replies amid the sound effects of heavy wind and rain, a shot ringing out and some character moaning in pain. 

“This was your idea, Henry,” she reminds him, pulling out a pot and giving the sauce a stir. “You invited Killian and Liam over for dinner, you better help put it together.”

He groans, but the video game noises cease and stuttered footsteps get louder as Henry comes into the kitchen. Emma points toward the freezer. “You can be in charge of garlic bread and salad,” she directs him. They’re the easier tasks left to do and if her son manages to get a stain on his sweater making a salad, she’ll be more impressed than angry. 

Emma doesn’t cook much, and when she does normally, it’s blue box macaroni or microwave popcorn. For a long time, it was what she could afford, simple to make, and didn’t taste like ass. It just became habit. 

But now that Henry’s older, he sometimes goes through phases where he wants to help make dinner every night, or venture into the world of baking after a  _ Great British Bake Off _ binge. Now that they’ve got an extensive array of kitchenware, it’s become more frequent. He even tried to make pumpkin pie with pretty successful results for Thanksgiving dinner at the Nolans’. No one got food poisoning and that’s all either of them really needed to mark it as a win.

The doorbell rings just as Emma pours the noodles into boiling water. 

“Henry, can you go let them in?” she requests. “Ask to take their coats and hang them up.”

Doing as she bids, he asks, “When did we move to the Plaza?”

Emma tries to stifle her laughter at his quip. She hears the front door squeak open, the heavy footfalls of boots following shortly after. Booming laughter echoes through the hall and she has the brief thought that she’s outnumbered in her own house for the night. 

“It smells delightful, Emma,” Liam says by way of greeting, his younger brother and Henry trailing behind him.

“Thank you,” she says kindly. Tapping excess sauce off a spoon, Emma spins to find the men well-dressed, both similarly garbed like Henry. Nice slacks, sweaters over button ups, coiffed hair at least on Liam’s part. “It’s not much, but we do our best to outdo our usual Chinese takeout and TV dinners at Christmas.”

Liam sets a cloth bag on the counter, removing three bottles of wine and a bottle of rum. At her questioning look, he grins. “One is for dinner and the rest is your present from us,” he explains. 

Emma is about to retort when he holds up his hand to stop her. “It’s Christmas, people give presents, deal with it,” he says with a smug smile. “I believe that’s what you told me earlier.”

“And these are for you, lad.” Killian reveals two comic books, both contained in plastic bags, from behind his back. “We wanted to make sure the snow didn’t ruin them before you got to fully enjoy them.”

Henry gasps, his eyes going wide. He takes the comics from Killian carefully, as if he’s been handed one of the most precious and fragile jewels in the world. 

“What do you say, Henry?” Emma coaxes.

“Thank you!” he shouts, hugging Killian tightly before doing the same to Liam, all while they laugh. “These are great! Santa got me this Lego set!”

“Really?” Liam asks. “Well, now you have to show me. I loved Legos when I was a boy.”

They go off to the living room to start building the spaceship ‘Santa’ brought Henry this morning, leaving Killian behind.

(Emma wonders idly if that was their plan all along, for Liam to distract Henry while she and Killian...whatevered.)

(So much for Liam not playing wingman.)

“Would you mind opening up one of those?” she asks of him, pointing toward the alcohol. He’s hovering as it is and it makes her more nervous for what may come. “Whatever you want. I drink it all.”

He goes straight for the hard stuff, finding glasses and pouring them a couple fingers of rum each. He hands her a cup, then holds his own up to cheers.

“Merry Christmas, Swan,” he says quietly. 

“Merry Christmas, Jones.” She takes a healthy swig of the drink, keeping her shudder to a minimal shake. The liquid warms her stomach and, temporarily, calms the nervous bubbles. “So hear I need to thank you and pay you back for a can of cinnamon rolls,” she says casually, stirring the noodles in their pot. Emma’s been alone for so long in her life that she, to this day, still has trouble taking kindness as it is. People always expect something in return: favors, money, sex, whatever. She is of the firm belief that people – or at least the people she talks to and deals with – never do or say things from the goodness of their heart. Nobody is that nice. Nobody isn’t that self-serving.

Except, it seems, for Killian. What a surprise there.

“I will accept your thanks graciously, but absolutely refuse anything else.” She glances at him with a raised brow. Shaking his head, he sighs. “It’s a can of cinnamon rolls, Swan. We were out getting groceries as it was.”

“Still…”

With a short moan, Killian scratches at the back of his neck. “Emma, it’s Christmas, the season of giving.” He sighs, leaning up against the counter next to the stove, his hip jutted out. “If you really feel the need to thank me, I’ve got an idea.” She looks up at him and he taps at his lips, a smirk growing across his face.

(He wants her to kiss him. Again.)

(She’s inclined to do it. But not without resistance for the fun of it.)

“That’s what the thank you was for,” she murmurs, trying to hide her grin.

“Is that all that’s worth to you?” Killian asks dramatically. “You were willing to throw money my way mere seconds ago.” When she keeps quiet, he exhales and places a hand on the small of her back . moving ever closer to her. “Come on, Swan, consider it my Christmas present. I don’t even bite unless asked.”

(If all he wanted for Christmas was another kiss from her, she’d be glad to keep the ornate copy of  _ 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea _ she got him. Henry would be more than happy to read it.)

“Please,” she scoffs. “You couldn’t handle it.”

“If I remember correctly, I already handled it quite well,” he mutters. Then he challenges her: “Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it again.”

There’s a slight moment of hesitation between the two of them where they just stare at each other. Emma looks deep into Killian’s eyes, brighter than she’s ever seen them in the dim light of her kitchen. 

Then she pounces.

Grabbing at his shoulders, she pulls him down to her level and all but attacks him. Her lips on his, her hands in his hair, and his hands traveling the expanse of her back. 

It doesn’t last long - certainly not as long as their kiss at the wrap party - but it’s certainly more messy and real. It feels like he’s trying to infuse her with his affection or desire at the same time, aiming for the adventure of a first kiss and the passion of the last all in one go. 

Liam’s masculine laughter and Henry’s childish giggles emanate from the other room, interrupting them, and then the timer for the pasta goes off and life is moving forward once more.

“Mm, I think I can still taste the cinnamon on your lips,” Killian says softly, still close enough to keep the goosebumps that popped up on her skin from dissipating. 

“God, I hope not,” she chuckles, moving to turn the stove off and drain the pasta. “I brushed my teeth and everything before you showed up.”

He chuckles in turn. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were trying to impress me this evening.”

Emma shakes her head, the flume of steam flying up from the pot of noodles. “No, I’m celebrating,” she corrects him.

“Whatever you say, love.” Pasta settled in the colander and hot metal pot set down, Emma turns to grab at some olive oil when Killian tugs at the skirt of her dress. He pulls her closer until she’s between his legs, leaning against him leaning against the counter. “I like this regardless. You look quite fetching.”

She smiles, blushes, and hits him on the shoulder with said olive oil. “Go set the table or something,” she says, ushering off into the other room.

(Literally. Any other room. She’s going to end up burning herself with him distracting her like he is.)

“As you wish,” he murmurs, sending Emma a salacious wink and leaving to join his brother and her son.

And she thinks that, despite her opposing words from earlier in their friendship, Killian Jones has managed to charm her through  _ Princess Bride _ quotes.

0000

Like she's spent much of her time this year, Emma rings in the new year on a boat. A  _ ship _ , she mentally corrects herself. She’s getting better at remembering the difference. 

Jones hangs near her the entire night, which she’s fine with, but when he grabs her hand as the countdown starts, she panics. They like each other a little more than liking each other and a little less than like-liking each other. But a kiss to begin the New Year? That’s asking a lot of her. 

She squeezes his hand and hopes that he understands what she means. Because when midnight strikes and the fireworks start, Emma reaches over to Henry and smushes his face to her lips. “Happy New Year, kid,” she whispers. “Let’s hope this one’s as good as the last.”

How she ever raised such a sass-master for a child, she’ll never know, but Henry allows her one more kiss to the cheek before he responds, “I think it’s gonna be great.”

And then he pushes her into Killian’s waiting arms.

While Emma rolls her eyes and puts up a small fight to release herself from his arms, Jones manages to match the sway of the ship on the water. “What do I have to do to earn your trust, Swan?” he asks gently. “Jump in the water in my skivvies at this hour?”

And maybe it’s the alcohol that makes her say it – aren’t the only people who are completely honest are drunks and children? – but still she lets the words “I already do” pass her lips. And then, realizing it doesn’t make much sense, Emma corrects herself with a shake of her head. “I mean, nothing. You already do.”

“Really?” he says with a hint of surprise, recoiling just a bit so their gazes match. 

“Of course.” Emma wrinkles her nose and chuckles. “Oh captain, my captain and all that, right?”

He smiles endearingly. “Emma,” he whispers, and there’s so much sweetness in his tone that it makes her toes curl and her tongue run across her teeth just to make sure they haven’t rotted and fallen out of her head.

She expects him to kiss her. She’s ready for it, or at least that’s what she’ll tell herself when she reflects on the moment in the future. 

But he doesn’t kiss her on the lips: instead, he presses his lips to her forehead for an extremely inordinate amount of time. “Love, you may not remember this in the morning – whether you black out or you erase it from your mind – but I always will remember the night you graced me with your trust. I will hold it close to my heart.”

She smiles, letting the warmth radiate from his kiss to the rest of her body. “Happy New Year, Killian.”

He chuckles. “And a first name reference as well?” he teases her. Killian pulls her into his chest, and she goes willingly. “Emma, love, you have made a poor man’s New Year mere minutes into it.”

Emma shrugs, unperturbed by the strong set of arms around her. “I do what I can.”

“You do so much more, love,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: as always, thank you to sotheylived, shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, and captainswanbigbang. and an equally as big thank you to you for sticking with the story thus far!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this chapter, we are officially over the halfway point in this story! A million thanks over for all of you who have stuck with this since the beginning, and a million thanks to those who've hopped on along the way. As I might've said before, this had been an idea in my head for a long time before it actually started to become something. It really means a lot that all of you are enjoying it so much :)  
> I want to, as always, give an extra special thank you to sotheylived, queen-icicle-fandom, shipsxahoy, and captainswanbigbang. You know what you did.

It seems like she’s hardly taken a breath when Emma’s settling into the corner of the couch at the Jones residence, watching one of the last commercials before their show - the one they’ve all put so much work into - airs. Crew dinner leads to crew drinks leads to both crews, Emma, Henry, David and Mary Margaret, Jefferson, Grace, and Ruby struggling to find a place to watch the premiere. Liam’s had to force some of the others into his room because not everyone could comfortably see the TV.

“Never thought I’d be nervous to look at me handsome mug on a screen,” Scarlet says, taking another drink of his beer. “Soon I’ll be changin’ ma numba. Too many ladies wantin’ a piece of me.”

“Sounds a bit optimistic, mate,” Robin jokes next to her. “No woman will want to come close to Storybrooke once they know you’re here.”

A pillow flies toward them, narrowly missing her face, in insubordination, and the room breaks into laughter before the title card comes on the screen and Henry shushes them all.

It’s the first time anybody’s seen the full cut of the episode, including Jefferson, or even the title of the series. The executives decided on  _ Sea of Chaos _ , and it’s a bit pretentious for Emma’s taste, but if it’s what the execs want, she’s not going to disagree with the people who sign her paychecks.

Tonight’s premiere is an hour, mostly introductions to the people and explanations of the trawling world with occasional sass. Well, more than occasional: it seems the executives wanted to capitalize on the nihilism and sarcasm popular with millennials and makes sure to include more quips than Emma thinks she’s ever heard in one sitting.

(And that’s saying a lot, seeing as she spends the vast majority of her time in the company of Joneses.)

Money exchanges hands during one of the final commercial breaks when they determine Whale is going to be the asshole of the series. A lot of it is going into the possession of Whale himself, and Emma can’t be too stunned that he knows how much of an ass he is.

Overall, it goes off well. Everyone present is happy and excited for the next episode. On their way out the door, Jefferson tells her and David they’ll meet later in the week once the ratings come in.

“It’s look great,” he says, wiping at snowflakes that have caught in the fringe of his hair. “I have full confidence that it’s going to be a hit.”

“I hope so,” David says, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “You already promised us a second season. No take backs on that shit.”

Emma chuckles, bidding them goodbye as she wraps herself around a complaining Henry.

“C’mon, can’t I stay up a little while longer?” he pleads.

She shakes her head. “You’ve still got school tomorrow, as far as we know.”

Henry groans, dragging his feets in the little snow that’s already accumulated. “But August said that the weatherman said it’s going to snow a foot,” he argues. “And Killian promised I could sleep over the next time school was cancelled.”

“Well, Killian needs to talk that over with me before you do anything.” She nudges him in front of her. “And you’re going to school tomorrow. I feel it in my bones.”

Her bones, turns out, are wrong. When she switches off her alarm the next morning, all white greets her outside her window. She can’t even see the road, can barely tell where the plow had already been through earlier that morning. A quick call to the automated school system hotline tells her that, since all the roads are closed and the sheriff’s department has issued a no unnecessary travel throughout the county, students get the day off. They’ll make it up at the end of the school year. 

Loathe as she is to leave her bed, Emma does, tiptoeing her way into Henry’s room. He’s haphazardly sprawled across the mattress, already looking too small for her weed of a son. Placing a hand on his back, she leans over and whispers in his ear, “No school, kid.”

“Told you,” he grumbles, turning his head further into the pillow and readjusting himself. Emma chuckles, moving the blankets so they better cover his body. She’ll let him off this once, let him sleep in and enjoy the snow day. It’s only January, but winter will come to an end eventually.

Emma finds out the hard way that Maine winters never end. It’s still snowing significantly at the beginning of May and she’s trying to prep for the next season of _Sea of Chaos_. Henry’s going on field trips every other day because the end of the school year is in sight and teachers know that no more learning is going to get done in the classroom, but even his field trips end up getting snowed out.

“This has got to be one of the worst winters in history,” Robin says, watching even more snow fall from the warmth of his living room. Emma’s over visiting  the Locksleys, mostly so Henry can distract Roland outside and give Regina some needed rest. Taking a sip from his mug of tea, Robin turns back to her. “Seriously, I don’t know what gods you angered when you both moved here, but tell them to quit it. We’re not going to be able to go out until next year at this rate.”

Emma shrugs, drinking from her own cup of hot chocolate. “I go where the money goes,” she says. “Take it up with whatever god patronizes that.”

0000

On the early June morning season two is set to start filming, a freak storm  **-** just rain this time, it seems the snow has decided to make its delayed exit **-** forms from nothing and the Jones brothers both think it best to stay ashore. Word on the radio says that the water is choppy, and swells were nearing record heights.

“It’s not safe for anyone out there today,” Liam tells her as they stand by the docks just behind his home. Water is already lapping vigorously at wooden planks they stand, and Emma makes a mental note to get a few seconds of that after she finishes this higher vantage point B roll.

“That’s good,” Emma mutters as she looks into the viewfinder. “Make sure to say that when David sits you down later today.” 

Liam chuckles. “No weather can stop the show from shooting, does it now?” he asks.

Pulling back from her camera, Emma hitches it further up her shoulder before sinking to the ground. “I’ve got a son. When you’ve got a kid who has the reading ability and love that he does, you’ve got to have the money to keep up with the habit.”

“Your boy could have much worse habits.” And it’s true: Henry could be addicted to video games. Or rather, more addicted. She’s just lucky that he enjoys imagining the story rather than watching it play out on a screen. “Killian was rotten when we were growing up.”

That piques her interest. “Really?” she asks in disbelief. “How so?”

“Oh, you know,” Liam leads. “Boys will be boys and such.”

“Nuh uh.” Setting the equipment between her feet to steady the shot, Emma looks up at Liam, pulling the hood of her slicker forward. “You and I both know that I don’t stand for that logic. And you wouldn’t bring up the topic if you didn’t want to share a story.”

Grinning wide, Liam claps her on the shoulder. “Have I told you how much I enjoy your company, Emma?”

She shrugs. “Not today you haven’t,” she concedes. “But get to the point.”

Liam crosses his arms over his chest, leaning his head forward so his hood properly shielded him from the rain. “Killian was probably 12 when this happened. After our mother died and father left, I had to take on the role of parent and brother. But Killian just lashed out. He wouldn’t come home at night.” He rolls his shoulders back and straightens up a bit. “I still, to this day, don’t know where he ran off to sleep at night. But when I could wrangle him home, he spent the entire night downstairs in the living room.” Liam paused in the middle of his story to glance at Emma out of the corner of his eye. “Watching  _ I Love Lucy _ reruns.”

“No!” Emma gasps, to which Liam nods, his smile growing wider by the second.

“I would come down every couple of nights to make sure he was still there and there he was.” His words are tinged with laughter now, as Emma’s sure that he’s seeing preteen Killian, wide-eyed and half asleep on their couch, in his mind’s eye. “I asked him about it once and he yelled and stormed off and didn’t come home for three days. His teacher eventually sent him home because he smelled rancid.” With a shake of his head, Liam heaves a large side. “Honestly, it’s a miracle that he made it through any classes.”

“That’s surprising for how smart your brother is,” Emma defends him, though she isn’t quite sure why. “I mean, TV Land obsession aside.”

“It’s ‘cause he read all the time,” Liam says with a reluctant chuckle. “During waking hours, I never saw him without a book close by.” Crossing his arms, he sighs. “Yeah, he’s a fool, but damn, do I love that nerd.”

“Which nerd?” Both Emma and Liam turn to see Killian wandering toward them, footsteps stuttered as the mud sucks his boots in the ground. “Is my brother boring you with tales of  _ Star Trek _ , Swan?”

“Actually, he was telling me about you,” she tells him smugly. “How you spent your late nights at the Copacabana with Ethel and Desi and Fred.”

Killian is stupefied. His jaw hangs from its joints and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He looks at his brother with accusation. “I told you, you prick, that was the only thing on at that hour!” he shouts.

Liam shrugs. “Whatever you say, little brother.” He steps back, away from Emma and toward the house, with a slight bow. “Whatever you say.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Killian,” she tells him. “We all do things when we’re desperate for distraction.”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” he corrects her with a shake of his head. Water droplets flick onto her face. “When I did watch it, I found it quite amusing.” He sighs and looks back toward the retreating figure of his brother. “I just wish my elder brother wouldn’t go throwing out that story willy-nilly.”

“Well, it sounds like he watched  _ Star Trek _ more than someone normally would,” she observes. “I’m not saying payback, but I’m also not  _ not _ saying it.” That gets a guffaw out of him, Killian leaning back and laughing toward the sky. It’s a great sound, something that wards off the chill of the rain around them.

His laughter dies down and Emma sighs. “I should get back inside.”

“Before you go,” he grabs her arm and gently tugs her back to look at the harbor. “The last episode of the series airs tomorrow night.”

“It does, finally.” Between award shows, holiday specials, and breaking news events,  _ Sea of Chaos  _ had been pushed back and interrupted more than originally expected. “Are you excited?”

Killian shrugs, his hands digging into the pockets of his jacket. “I have no real opinion on the matter.” He shuffles his feet a tad before looking at her. “However, I was wondering if you might want to come and watch it.” His eyes flit to the side. “With me,” he adds, “alone.”

Pursing her lips to hide her smile, Emma raises a brow. “If I didn’t know you any better, Jones, I’d think you were asking me out on a date.”

“Not a date,” he says quickly. “No, if I was asking you on a date, you would know.” He shrugs again and looks out to the roiling water before admitting, “I miss our little sessions on the  _ Jolly Roger. _ ”

“What little sessions?”

“In the captain’s roost,” he explains. “The ones where you come up and bother me by asking questions and doing your job.”

“Killian, we’ll have those little moments as soon as this weather lets up and we get out on the water,” she reminds him. 

“Maybe I didn’t want to wait until then.” He says it quietly, maybe hoping it would get lost in the sounds of the storm. But Killian shakes his head and gestures back to the house. “It’s fine, Swan. I’ll watch it with my prat of a brother. I’ll talk to you later.”

Turning to follow in Liam’s footsteps, Killian starts back toward the dryness of the indoors. He looks sad, a dejected little puppy caught out in the rain, and Emma can be cruel and play too many games, but not to him. Not when he looks like an animal out of an ASPCA commercial. She reaches out and manages to catch his arm.

He stops and looks over his shoulder at her. “Yeah,” she says, nodding. “I’ll bring the rum.”

His smile could stop the storm itself. In fact, Emma’s surprised it doesn’t. “No need, love. We’ve got plenty of that.”

“I’m bringing it anyways. I’m afraid Henry’s going to start getting adventurous and rebellious soon.”

Killian scoffs and shakes his head. “Nonsense. He’s 10. Besides, your lad wouldn’t dare to disobey his mother.”

Both her brows raise up as she comes up next to him and they match their steps heading up to his house. “You’d be surprised,” she grumbles. “I was pretty stubborn at his age.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me one bit.”

Emma happily regales him with some of the stories of her youthful hijinks the next evening while lazing about on his couch during commercial breaks. She leaves out the part about Neal, stays in the realm of foster care and the time before Henry. There aren’t many years to draw from, nor an array of good memories, but she shares them nonetheless.

It’s nice, just hanging out with him. He doesn’t try any funny business, of which she’s a little bit confused about because the last couple times they were together, they were hard-pressed not to find a space more secluded. But it’s nice, having a more-than-friend to do whatever with, even if it’s just laughing at something stupid his brother said on camera that was supposed to be inspirational.

“I can’t believe he said that!” Killian shouts, laughing so hard he smacks himself in the stomach. He grabs his phone and starts texting. “I’ve gotta ask Dave if he actually said that.”

“I’m sure he did,” Emma tells him. “Talking heads are the one thing we don’t really mess with.”

He cocks a brow and pulls at her foot, legs lying tangled with his legs across the couch. “That’s good information to have, Swan. Thank you.”

“Except the cursing,” she adds. “Don’t go cursing up a storm because I will edit the shit out of that.”

“I’m a sailor, love,” he whines, tugging at her socked toes. “How else am I supposed to talk?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I‘M SORRY THIS IS LATE BUT MY COMPUTER POOPED OUT. But it’s okay, we’re gonna do this now.
> 
> This chapter has what the MPAA would call thematic elements and there’s also mention of character death(s?). GUYS, SHIT GOES DOWN IN THIS CHAPTER. In the original draft, this and the next chapter were one, but then it was like 10k and I was like THAT’S TOO LONG. So now you get two. You’re welcome.
> 
> As always, so many thanks to you, sotheylived, queen-icicle-fandom, captainswanbigbang, and shipsxahoy, who made ANOTHER image for this story. It’s gr8, thank you Bianca my dear.

When she finally gets on the  _ Jolly Roger  _ a few days later, it’s a surprisingly pleasant day. The sun is bright and warm, but not so overbearing that she wants to die from holding 20 pounds of camera equipment for four hours straight or longer. There's a slight breeze that smells like summer and it seems like the perfect day to go sailing.

Killian looks to be the only one on board at the moment, standing in the door at his post on the captain’s roost. His hair moves in gentle waves, which Emma takes to mean that the windows behind him are wide open. His face is set in a scowl, which genuinely surprises her. Who would frown at this type of weather?

She jogs up the gangplank and then across the deck until she stands on the bottom stair leading up to him.

“So what’s the plan for today?” Emma asks, mentally trying to plan out what she needs to film. Jeff told her to get more talking heads, but in order to get better talking heads, something big has to happen. She doesn’t expect to get any of that action today, but it’s the sort of day that she could persuade and trick herself into thinking as a day of leisure instead of another day on the job.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to head out today,” Killian says, shaking his head.

Affronted by the idea, Emma visibly recoils. “Why not? It’s beautiful out.”

Jerking his chin up toward the sky, he responds, “It’s going to storm.”

“What?” Looking up, Emma is stunned to see nothing. Not a cloud, not a bird. Just blue, blue skies for miles in each direction. “Have you gone blind, Jones? There aren’t any clouds or anything and it just rained for three days.”

Killian sighs and stands up. “Exactly.” He says it with such conviction that Emma almost doesn’t question it. 

“I’m sorry, are you sure you aren’t crazy?”

“The sky was red this morning,” he explains. When she doesn’t respond, Killian sighs again and crosses his arms. “’Red sky in morning, sailors take warning. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.’ Ever heard it?” Emma nods. “It’s true. Even if it looks beautiful, the sky was red this morning,” he gestures out to the water before them. **“** Storms are coming and the  _ Jolly Roger _ isn’t steady or large enough to handle them.”

Emma sighs and rolls her eyes. “Is the _Jewel_ heading out?” she asks **.**

Rolling his eyes right back at her, Killian spins on his heels, nearly mows her down as he grabs his phone from inside, and begins to stalk back toward the house. “Despite my better judgement, yes.”

“Then why - ”

“You said you trusted me, Emma” he says frustratedly, whirling back on her. His eyes are alight with something, challenging her to interrupt him. **“** I’m not taking my men out on the water today **.** ”

His request doesn’t exactly leave a bad taste in her mouth, but it doesn’t make her see reason either. Jones knows that he’s got to go out as certain number of days during the season so she can film it. It’s in his contract, one that she signed as well with different words.

Emma whips out her phone and calls David, glaring at Jones as the line connects. David picks up on the second ring. He barely greets her, so accustom to Emma calling him to talk work.

“Hey, I was thinking that we could switch - ”

“The  _ Roger _ ’s not leaving port today,” she interjects. Even though she knows David can’t see her expression, she makes sure to send a sneer toward the captain of said ship. **“** Apparently, Jones’ spidey sense is tingling.”

“What does that even mean?” David asks **.**

Sighing, Emma turns her back to Jones **.** “He said it’s going to storm real bad.”

“Has he looked at the forecast? The weatherman was saying Maine’s on the verge of a drought.”

Emma shrugs. “I know, trust me, I know,” she mumbles. **“** Anyways, I’m gonna stay in and film some talking heads with the boys, try and get some footage out of today’s mood swing. Text me anything you want to me to address or record **.** ”

“Alright.”

“Have fun, David.”

“You too, Emma.”

She hits the end call button, an angry red she thinks fully expresses the emotions she’s trying to control right now, and glancing over her shoulder to continue silently glaring at Jones.

“Trust me, Swan,” he says, as if he can read her mind. And maybe it’s not necessarily her mind that she’s reading. A couple times before, when she’s been in this sort of mood, others have told her that her anger and frustration played out on her face. 

That knowledge has her sighing, the tension that’s set in her shoulders relaxing a shade as she turns to face him head on. He approaches her, slowly. “I have been doing this for far longer than you have,” he reminds her. “I have made the mistake of going against my gut feeling before, of going out when I know I shouldn’t. Never again.” His hands gently lay on her shoulders, giving them a quick squeeze. “I told Henry I would keep you safe. This is how I’m doing it.”

Now that he’s semi-explaining his decision to her - not that he should have to, but it's nice that he is - Killian makes sense. Sometimes she gets so focused on doing her job that she forgets about the others who might be affected by it. Jones does have the experience and, despite being still somewhat new to the title captain, he practically breathes the sea. He knows her far better than Emma could ever wish to.

And hell, she isn't the only one who has people to come back to, who would be devastated if something went wrong. Whale has to have a handful of conquests to return to, Scarlet as well. She’s got Henry and the Nolans and Robin, he’s got his wife and son and baby on the way. 

He’s thinking smart. He’s thinking for himself and not following Liam’s suit, as Emma realizes she was trying to do in getting him out on the  _ Jolly Roger.  _

On a groan, Emma rolls her eyes, grabs Killian’s wrist, and begins dragging him off his damn boat.

“C’mon,” she grumbles. “If we aren’t going out, I’m going to sit you down and annoy you to death with questions.”

She hears his chuckle, but refuses to acknowledge the apparent joy he finds in her threat.  **“** I did say I missed our sessions, didn’t I?” he quips, catching up to her and pressing a kiss behind her ear **.**  “As long as I’m with you, Swan, it’s a lovely way to die.”

Her jaw drops in annoyance and she rolls her eyes without another thought.

0000

Normally, talking heads are filmed in a studio, but since this whole endeavor is still technically in it’s infant stages, the network executives haven’t afforded them the luxury of an actual local studio. 

Luckily enough, the Jones’ house has a guest room, which, for the time being, Jefferson has converted into a studio. There’s a little stool that the crew members can sit on in front of a dark blue backdrop. A tripod is set up across from it, and a window looks out over the backyard and harbor.

(When she first walked in the room, Emma wondered what happened to the bed she’s sure was in it. She was going to asking Killian, but then she could imagine on the tip of the iceberg of innuendos she’d be asking for.)

She’s texted the boys and told them she’s expecting them in an hour and a half for talking heads - planned interviews to go in between scenes and explain the more complicated aspects of trawling. In the meantime, she’s found a little solitude in the makeshift studio. 

Henry’s back at home by himself, technically under the watch of Mary Margaret even though they’re in their separate houses. He texted her a couple minutes ago asking if he could go over to Phillip's after lunch. She’d given him the okay so long as he stopped by next door and told Mary Margaret where he was going.

(She doesn’t admit that Jones’ words hung in her mind as she added “And bring a slicker” as an afterthought to the message.)

She relishes in her silence, staring out the window for god knows how long. All she knows is that when she started watching the waves, they were gentle. Now, they’ve worked up into storm swells hitting against the docks and ominous clouds have rolled in the stead of sunshine.

“What d’you know?” she murmurs to herself. “He was right.”

“I know.” Killian’s snuck up on her, his voice coming from right above her shoulder, causing her to jump. “Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Her hand resting over her heart in an attempt to calm it, Emma shakes her head. “It’s fine,” she gasps. “It’s totally and completely fine for you to scare me shitless.” Then she smacks his shoulder. “Don’t fucking do it again.”

He chuckles and takes a step back as she goes to hit him again. “Again, my deepest apologies. I won’t knowingly do it again.”

Gesturing toward the stool, Emma’s murmured, “Asshole,” is thankfully overpowered by the crackle of the Coast Guard radio in the corner. It’s happened on occasion, in the middle of interviewing Killian at the wheel on the water or when doing talking heads. The communication comes to life and let’s them know the status of the harbor or the sound. None of them really pay attention to it except to pause the recording and start once the update is finished.

Right now, the radio warns of worsening conditions, waves reaching 10 feet and expected to grow larger.

“Do you believe me now?” His voice breaks her concentration on the camera. Looking up, smugness is written all over his face. 

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be mean about it,” she says. “Remember, I’ve only been around boats for a couple months.”

Killian closes his eyes and looks up toward the ceiling, as if he’s saying a silent prayer for patience. “Ship, Swan,” he finally groans. “You’ve been here a year. I thought that’d be enough time to get it through your stubborn head.”

(It has gotten through, for the most part. Nowadays, she does it because of how badly it ruffles his feathers.)

“Alright, whatever,” she sighs, and starts recording. Opening her phone, Emma pulls up the notepad app on her phone and scrolls through the mixture of questions she keeps and the ones she thought up after her conversation with Jones this morning.

“Why didn’t you go out on the waters today?” she asks first.

He furrows his brows. “Come now, Swan, I told you earlier,” he answers.

“You told me,” she says, pointing at herself for emphasis. Then she points at the camera, its lens focused on him. “You didn’t tell the audience.” Killian gives her a baleful look and Emma rolls her eyes. “You know how this works. Humor me.”

After another annoyed look and a sigh, he sits up straight and stares directly into the camera. He launches and delves deeper into the explanation she heard earlier this morning about red skies and old wives’ tales. Even hearing it a second time is fascinating, but she finds herself being a little biased.

(She also finds herself drifting off into dreamland, the cadence of his voice lulling her into a contented haze.)

Once he finishes, Emma asks the next obvious question: “How do you feel about your brother and his crew going out?”

A flash of something like concern flashes behind his blue irises and she knows it wouldn’t be evident on TV, but she  _ knows _ Killian these days. There’s something about the weather and the current conditions that has him worrying over Liam and the rest of the  _ Jewel _ .

“I’m not pleased, as you can probably tell,” he says, his voice getting low with disappointment. His hand scrubs across his face. “Liam taught me all that I know about sailing, trawling, all of it. And to see him explicitly go against everything he taught me today.” He looks up at the ceiling again and this time Emma can’t tell if it’s a prayer or an attempt to censor his feelings toward his brother. “He’s his own man, he can do what he wants.”

She falls out of interviewer mode, looking up from her phone and taking a step out from behind the camera and tripod. His head comes back to straight and Emma looks at him in a different light. “That doesn’t sound like the Jones brothers I know,” she says quietly.

Killian sighs and looks to her, not the camera. “There’s a lot about the Jones brothers you don’t know,” he says just as softly. “Liam always told me growing up a man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.” A self-deprecating chuckle falls from his lips. “He still tells me that, at least once a week.” Killian shrugs and throws his hand toward the window. “If this is what he wants, then he’s fighting for it. Whatever happens to him happens.”

“Don’t say that,” she murmurs, stepping further away from the camera setup.

“Why not?”

She comes to stand beside him, staring down at his still-seated position. “I know you’re angry with him right now, but don’t say that Liam deserves whatever happens to him out there.” Contemplating her next words, Emma finally settles on almost telling him a little bit about her past. “Look, I never had any siblings, but I know that if I had, I would’ve protected and loved them with everything I had.”

“It’s not that I don’t love my brother,” he corrects her. His hand runs through his hair. “It’s just he’s such an insufferable, stubborn arse sometimes and it more often than not ends up bad for him or me or one of the crew.”

“But you’ve all survived so far, haven’t you?” she counters.

That makes Killian laugh, his head thrown back and the sound a bit jarring compared to the previous quiet of the interview.  “Yeah, we’re all survivors. Somehow, some way,” he admits. Still, he shakes his head, then glances up at her with a funny little twinkle in his eye. “You’re not trying to get some heartfelt admission out of this, are you? Not trying to use your womanly wiles against me?”

Scoffing, Emma takes a step away from him. “Womanly wiles?” she asks, walking toward the window and looking out it. The rain has started and it is coming down in sheets. “What is this, the 19th century? Afraid I’m going to bewitch you body and soul or something?”

Under his breathe, she thinks she hears, “You already have,” but the next thing he says aloud is “Austen. I can definitely see you as a Lizzie Bennett. Maybe even Lydia.”

“Don’t insult me like that,” she says jokingly. A glance over her shoulder proves that he’s raised his hands in defeat.

“Worry not, I only meant it in jest,” he assures her. When he lowers his hands, Killian’s expression takes on a more - she doesn’t want to say adoring, but that’s the only word she can think of right now - tone. “You’re my own Emma Bennett.”

She grimaces at him even though her stomach does a little clench-and-flip move at his words. “No, I won’t use this footage if you don’t want me to,” she tells him, effectively changing the topic. “Although I bet some of it would pull on viewers heartstrings. Make you more human and stuff like that.”

“No need for that.” Emma hears him stand from the stool, his footsteps falling heavy on the floor until they come to a halt right next to her. She can feel the warmth and comfort that radiates off his jacket without even trying. “Everyone I want to know about me is already well on their way to figuring me out.”

She turns to him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What? What does that even mean?”

He sighs. “I’ve lived my life with my brother and our ships in this small town for a very long time,” Killian says, turning to face her completely. Emma, in turn, mimics him. Taking a step closer, he continues, “It’s not very often we have new residents move in or even longtime visitors such as yourself. I care about everyone in this town and they know exactly as much as I want them to about my life.” A grin forms as his face as the tip of his tongue licks at the corners of his mouth. “But you…”

Killian’s leaning into her space, a shy smile on his face and the tip of his nose a hair’s breadth away from hers. She feels a blush on her cheeks.

He’s going to kiss her. And she’s going to kiss him back. Again.

But the siren sounds and all hell breaks loose. Killian’s eyes shoot up in a flash, and he’s across the room staring directly at the scanner.

“Be advised,” a Coast Guard’s voice crackles over the radio. “We have reports of a crash on shore 15 miles due south of Georges Bank. Three persons reported missing. Two deckhands picked up by passing vessel. Be advised.”

“How awful,” Emma mutters, moving back to the camera, a finger pressing the record button and effectively pausing the film.

Killian turns around and winks at her **.** “Now do you trust me, Swan?”

The scanner comes back to life, repeating information they already know. Emma turns back to the camera, just about to ask him to take a seat, but new information reaches her ears.

“Vessel confirmed as  _ Jewel of Realm _ . Captain among missing.”

She feels the blood run out of her face and before she can fully process what the radio dispatch said, she hears the quick clunk of Killian’s boots sprint down the stairs.

As Killian runs out the door, Emma grabs at the camera and follows closely behind him. She’s catches footage of him running through the storm, down and through his yard  to the docks where he stands for a moment before sprinting back to his truck. Emma races after him, internally debating whether she should follow him in the Bug or hop in the passenger seat.

“Dammit, Swan, get in and let’s go,” Killian shouts, and she dutifully follows. Of course, she’s worried about Liam and his crew, but she’s been in this business long enough to know what makes the best television, and this is the shit that, for want of a better term, is fucking gold. 

(In hindsight, and even in the moment, Emma feels horrible for seeming like she’s putting her job first. She’s grown to care about the brothers and the rest of the crews more than she ever thought she could. But this is something that could cost her the job that brought her to them if she doesn’t film it.)

Her camera isn’t the best in these close quarters, but Emma thinks it’ll add to the franticness and desperation of the situation. It also doesn’t hurt that she’s trying to rationally think about what she would would do if she weren’t tasked with catching the moments. With the back end of it steadied on the rumbling truck door, Emma sends a quick text to Jeff alerting him of the situation.

_ Jewel crashed. Three missing. _

And then she jumps into camerawoman mode, asking Killian questions as he hunches over the steering wheel to make it down to the Coast Guard’s station.

“Talk to me, Jones,” she urges him. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“What I’m thinking?” he shouts, the anger reverberating around the small metal cab. **“** Really, Swan, is that the best you have for me?” Killian flicks on the turn signal and the truck’s wheels screech as he rounds the corner **.** “My brother’s ship was just reported wrecked and he’s among the three unaccounted for.” He glances over at her ruefully and sarcastically asks, “What do you think I’m feeling?”

“Anger,” she supplies easily. “Worry. Fear.”

“Yes, fine, if that’s what you want me to say, then yes.”

His voice is hollow and somewhat frightening. This isn’t the Killian she was just joking around with, the soft Killian she’d kissed before and nearly did again just now. Reading the tension in the car, Emma does something she’s been told to never do: she lowers the camera and turns it off.

“He’s going to be okay, Killian,” she says softly. She can barely hear her own voice over the sound of rain splattering on the windshield and windows. “You know that, right?”

“But I don’t,” he spits out. “I don’t know Liam’s going to be all right because the sea is a fickle bitch.She takes whatever men she desires whenever she cares for them, no matter if it’s their time or not.”

“You can’t afford to think like that.” With a deep breath, Emma decides without really deciding to reveal a story from her past. A real story that hurts to recount, because the only way she knows how to make Killian feel better is to tell him she knows what he’s going through. Sort of.

“I met David and Mary Margaret at community college when I was 17,” she starts. “During my second year, I met a guy who supposedly loved me. But Neal set me up to take the fall for his thefts.” She sighs. “I was young and pregnant and incarcerated and all I wanted to do was give up. Nothing was going my way and I honestly woke up sadder every day.” She gulps at the lump that’s formed in her throat. “But then I had Henry and it was alright **.”**

She looks up at him, grateful to find his laser focus on the road in front of them. “Whatever happens, whatever you find out at the Coast Guard station, you have to realize that it will be okay. And I know you probably don’t want to hear about me right now, but hopefully it took you mind off of the entire situation right now and you get - ”

Killian slams the gearshift into park. They’ve made it to the station, where some other cars are parked, getting soaked in the rain. He leans his forehead on the curve of the steering wheel.

“You’ve got to have some hope, Killian,” she murmurs. “Otherwise, you’ve already lost him.”

There’s silence. Then, “You truly are your son’s mother.”

Emma checks the camera, one hand strapping it back to her body and the other hand on door handle. “I’m choosing to take that as a compliment,” she says, pushing the passenger door open. **“** Let’s go.”

They both run through the rain, up the wooden stairs and into the warm and busyness of the building. Killian checks in with a woman behind a desk scanning a computer screen and reports back to Emma, who’s turned the camera back on and is catching footage of the Coast Guards running about.

“She said August and Mulan were found on the jetty. They’re banged up and a little worse for wear, but okay.” His hands akimbo on his hips, Killian stares at the floor and seems to get choked up. “Graham’s dead. They found him with the wreckage and he was already gone.”

Emma nearly drops the camera, hand covering her open mouth. Her eyes get watery. “No **,** ” she whispers. **“** Killian, I am so sorry.”

Killian takes a deep breath to maintain his composure. He shakes his head. “He didn’t feel any pain. I’m sure he’s in a better place now.” Letting out a gasp, he finally looks up and into the camera. **“** He died doing what he loved.”

Emma takes a moment for herself, to let the news sink in. With him being on the  _ Jewel _ ’s crew, she’d never really had many occasions to hang out and truly get to know Graham, but they’d interacted often at crew dinners. The conversations they did have left her in a good place. He made her laugh. And now he’ll never make anyone else laugh again.

But then she’s thrown back into the hustle and bustle of the Coast Guard station. “What about Liam and Arthur?” she asks. 

Killian shakes his head. “No word yet, nor David,” he says.

“What?!”

“He was out there too, remember?”

“Shit.” Whipping out her phone, Emma sends a hurried text to Mary Margaret. She needs to know, would want to know, especially before dinnertime.

Killian’s hand rests on her shoulder. **“** They’ve got men on shore and the copter overhead. They’ll find them.”

She nods and continues filming the hubbub and tension of the post, every once in a while glancing around to check on Killian. He paces the little lobby in front nervously.

A few more minutes pass before Mary Margaret storms in, more furious than Emma’s ever seen her, asking anybody in uniform about her husband’s welfare. Then she spots them in the corner and rushes up to them.

“Are they telling you anything? What’s going on?” she asks frantically.

Killian opens his mouth to answer her, but an officer calls Killian over to get some insight into Liam’s head, see if Killian can give them some pointers on where Liam might’ve been heading or where he might have been, just to narrow down the search fields. That leaves Emma to fill Mary Margaret in. 

“They found Mulan and August, they’re alright,” she says. “They’re still looking for David, Liam, and Arthur.”

“What about Graham?”

Emma gulps. “He’s dead.”

Just as Emma did earlier, Mary Margaret covers her mouth in shock. 

But that moment, too, is blessedly cut short.

“They found someone!” an officer shouts over the din of the station. “Four miles north on the shore.”

While Emma’s and Mary Margaret’s heads snap toward the man, Killian runs to him, leaning over his shoulder to look at the computer screen before them. “Who is it? Describe him.”

The officer presses his hand to his headphones, listening intently as his colleague describes their victim. “Medium build, Caucasian, light hair.”

Killian sighs while Mary Margaret runs to the other side of the officer, completely disregarding those who say civilians aren’t allowed back there without permission. “Is he okay? That’s David, is he okay?”

“We don’t know quite yet, ma’am, but initial reports still have him breathing **,** ” the officer assures her.

“Oh, thank god **,** ” Emma sighs, her hand coming to rest over her heart in relief. She doesn’t know what she’d do if she lost David. She figures that she wouldn’t be as heartbroken as his wife or his mother might be, but David was the first person to accept her for who she is without trying to change her. He accepted and helped her become the person she is today, whether he likes to admit to it or not **.** He’s the closest thing she has to family besides Henry.

“The others,” Killian asks, voice just this side of frantic as he addresses the officer. “Have your men seen any sign of the other two? Both Caucasian, darker hair, one curly **.** ” A bit taken aback by the ferocity with which Killian speaks, the officer merely shakes his head slowly **. “** Nothing?” Killian slams his hand on desk in frustration. “Dammit, keep looking.”

Left with nothing to do but worry over whatever may happen, Emma - a little bit too easily - falls back into camerawoman mode. She catches shots of Killian bustling about, of him discussing coordinates and the like with the Coast Guard officers. When she figures she’s gotten good footage of everything she can think of, Emma phones Jefferson to let him in on the situation.

“I trust your judgment, Emma,” he says when she tells him what she’s recorded, his voice crackling over the connection. The storm must just be hitting his side of town, or ruined the phone lines as well as crash the _ Jewel _ . “Just make sure you capture the moment Killian discovers Liam’s okay.”

Emma gulps at the insinuation in her next question: “But what if he’s not?”

Jefferson doesn’t say anything for a long while - has Emma pulling back to look at her screen to make sure the line hasn’t gone dead - but ends the call with, “Get whatever happens. Don’t let your eyes leave him for one moment.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she mumbles before hanging up.

The next few hours are a blur. Logically, Emma knows that she should go home and get some rest. A watched pot never boils and all that. But the thought of leaving Jones alone to deal with this...she can’t do that to the poor guy, even if she was in one of her crueler moods. She knows what that’s like - to be at a low point, perhaps the lowest of your life, and have to suffer through it alone. That’d been her life until she met the Nolans, until she had Henry. And, though she doesn’t think they’ll ever be best friends or anything close to it, just ships passing in the night when alcohol or the mood hits them, Emma’s come to kind of care for Jones. 

(She tells herself she likes Liam better, that's no question, but Killian holds his own in her book.)

Her back is up against the wall as she dozes, the camera set up on the action going on around her. It’s getting late and she’s put in a full day, despite not setting foot on the  _ Roger.  _ And she’d keep an eye on Jones if he would stop moving for a second, stayed stationary or maybe even paced a rut in the floor. But no - when he’s nervous, he’s a flurry of action.

It’s just as she’s rousing to text Ruby, asking her to stay with Henry at their house tonight - no one has any idea of how long the Coast Guard is going to keep this up - that all the mayhem comes to a pinnacle.

“Captain Jones!” an officer shouts. Killian rushes over to his post and she grabs the camera. Though Emma can’t hear what the officer is saying on her way over, the camera is trained on Killian. And she spots the moment his shoulders relax and his head falls forward in relief.


	15. Chapter 15

They’ve found Liam. Emma nearly cries of happiness. She’s pretty sure Killian actually does, not that she can blame him.

He’s beaten up, about 13 miles downshore of where the  _ Jewel _ went down. According to the officer speaking with Killian, he was face up in the sand, clothes torn and stomach bleeding profusely. There’s some worry that he’s severed an artery or ruptured his stomach lining and, for the time being, he’s been transported to the hospital for emergency treatment. 

There might be more to the story, but Killian’s already off to his truck, yelling “Swan!” over his shoulder. She follows quickly as she can with all the equipment on her frame and hops into the passenger seat.

“They found him,” he says to no one in particular. His eyes are on the road - a good thing, because he has to be going 20 over the speed limit at  _ least _ \- and he’s laughing in disbelief. “Swan, they found him. He’s going to be okay.”

(She gets that on camera, mentally files it away as a great moment, but fails to remind him that Liam isn’t out of the woods yet.)

They arrive at the hospital in what has to be record time, Jones actually forgetting to turn off the engine in his haste to see his brother. Emma does it for him, putting the keys in her pocket and jogging to catch up with him. She leaves the camera and all her equipment in the truck. She’s gotten his reaction, that’s all Jeff wanted. They can cut to talking heads of the rest of the crew, whatever. She’s not recording this part of the story; she’ll get fired before she subjects Liam and Killian to reliving this.

It’s a couple hours later, as the sun is starting to rise after one of the longest nights of her life, that she gets a call from Belle, Storybrooke’s resident librarian. Emma’s been sitting in the hospital reception area all night, napping in between calming Killian down. He’s off checking with the nurses’ station - again - when the blaring ringtone interrupts the stillness.

“Hi Emma,” she says. “I hope you don’t mind, but Jefferson gave me your number. He called to tell me about Graham first thing this morning.” Emma quirks a brow, but doesn’t say anything as the other woman sniffles. For everything worth her spit, she thought Belle was into Liam, and vice versa. Emma’d found out Belle was the brunette all caught up in Liam’s arms at the wrap party in November, and if that wasn’t a sign, then what were they doing? Then Belle sighs and adds, “He was my neighbor.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Belle,” she apologizes. Killian returns from the nurses’ station, takes a seat next to her for a moment before jolting up and beginning his pacing anew. “What can I do for you? I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I’m down at the Coast Guard station.”

“Why?” The question leaves her mouth unbidden before Emma could stop it. And, yeah, it comes off a bit rude and terse, but she’s in a hospital waiting to hear about how her close friend is doing after a shipwreck.

The other end of the line is silent for a moment before Belle sighs. “Jefferson told me about the wreck and I wanted to make everyone else was okay.”

A little taken aback by the reasoning, Emma nods. “Yeah. Well, no. August and Mulan are fine, David I think is at home now, Liam’s in the hospital, and the Guard are still looking for Arthur.”

“Oh.” Quiet hangs between the two of them, as if Belle is trying to figure out what she should say. “Actually, I overheard them saying they were going to keep looking for Arthur until around noon and then call it.” She sniffs again, her voice staying surprisingly even. “I’m sorry, I thought they’d called Killian.”

“They might have, but he’s a bit preoccupied now.” The man in question is running his hands through his hair, over and over again and if Emma doesn’t stop him, she’s going to start doing it herself. She has to berate herself: while an excellent distraction technique, making out with anybody while their brother is in the hospital is probably not, how would he say it, good form. “Do you have David’s number?” she asks.

“No.”

“Would you mind calling Jefferson and either asking him for David’s number or asking Jeff to get out in the field himself? Actually, ask Jeff,” she corrects herself. In all the melee, she’d forgotten that David was at sea for a short period as well. He’d been fine, in no worse shape than August or Mulan, but Emma’s sure Mary Margaret wouldn’t be letting her husband out of her sight for a while. “This is something that needs to be documented.”

“Oh, okay,” Belle replies, a little stunned at the professionalism in Emma’s request. “Um, would you mind calling me if anything happens with Liam?”

And despite everything going on around her, Emma smiles softly. She _ knew  _ Liam had to be a part of the reason Belle called her. “Of course. I’ll send you a text as soon as I know something,” she offers. “Thank you, Belle. And I really am sorry about Graham.”

“He’s left a wonderful legacy behind,” she says, her voice cracking. “I’ll talk to you soon, Emma.”

The line goes dead, Emma shoving her phone back in her jacket pocket before standing from her seat. Her joints pop in protest from being unused for so long. She moves directly in the path of Killian’s pacing, nearly getting bowled over in the process. Her hands come up to his shoulders, both to steady herself and stop his movements.

“What did the nurses say?” she asks, rubbing along his upper arms.

“The bleeding’s stopped for the most part,” Killian reports back. “They sewed him back together. He’s still out, he’s going to have a nasty scar.”

“But he’s going to be okay.” She doesn’t ask, because she knows it’s true. At least she hopes it’s true. But it sounds like the professionals are optimistic about the whole thing. “So what are you worried about?”

Killian shrugs, tension leaving his body and he begins to lean into her. Emma leads them both to chairs again, where he finally sits for more than two seconds.

“He’s my brother, love,” he says simply. “He’s all I’ve got.”

Tilting her head to the side, Emma then leans her head onto his shoulder, her arm threading through his in hopes that maybe some of her strength will soak through his skin. “And you’re all he’s got. He’s going to come back, Killian. Liam’s never going to leave you.”

0000

It’s a somber week in Storybrooke. It’s the end of June, school’s out, the sun is shining, but it feels as though it’s been nothing but storm clouds and rain for years. In a town as small as it is, everyone knows everyone. It was something Emma thought she would have a hard time adjusting to after living in huge cities for the past decade, but she didn’t. Whether it was because of the smaller population or the fact that she already had familiar faces waiting for her, she couldn’t say. But it was nice, being able to walk into the grocery store and greet whomever she met while reaching for milk.

That being said, she is unprepared for the amount of sorrow that walks the streets of her and Henry’s new hometown in the wake of the wreck. Graham and Arthur are both laid to rest - one physically and the other metaphorically - that second week of July, after failed attempts to find one and the coroner's decision on the other. The entire town shows up for both, save for Liam, who’s still recovering in the hospital, and the nurses who care for him. The only bright spot is that he’s doing well, and should be sent home by the end of the weekend.

Despite the doctors’ good tidings, Killian spends nearly every waking - and frankly, unconscious as well - moment at his brother’s side. Emma visits the two of them, sometimes bringing Henry along in the afternoons, to keep their spirits up. She knows that Belle drops by every couple of days, but what she and Liam do is a mystery to both her and Killian.

(Emma’s got some good ideas, though.)

The day Liam comes home, hopped up on meds but otherwise fully functioning and with a cool new scar to boot, Killian all but throws a party.

“He needs to rest, Killian,” Emma tries to gently remind him. “He’s been in the hospital for a week. Two weeks, actually. The doctors thought his wound was infected this time last week.”

But Jones won’t hear of it. “He’s been resting for two weeks, Swan, he’s bored,” he says. “We won’t party too hard. It’s just the lads.”

“Have you been to a get together with just you boys? It’s like a Vegas bachelor party on St. Patrick’s Day.”

He grins at her, his knuckles drumming out a rhythm on the nurse’s desk. “How would you know, love?” he counters. “Last I knew, you’d never been to one.”

“I’ve talked to Robin and August,” she quips easily. “I’m not making this shit up, and you know it.”

Leaning in, he whispers to her, “We’re just going to watch a football match. Nothing too rowdy, I promise.” And then he winks at her. “And if something goes awry, we’ll call up nurses Belle and Swan to come heal us.”

Emma groans and slaps him across the back of the head. “If you call me that, I’m going to leave you all to suffer.”

“What? Nurse Swan?” he teases her. He looks off into the distance, a fond smile on his face. “I don’t know, love, you’d look pretty good in a nurse’s uniform.”

She punches him in the shoulder this time and spins on her heels. She’ll text Liam that his brother was being a dick and make her apologies for not seeing him home later.

0000

A few days and what sounds like a well-deserved hangover later, Jefferson calls all of them over - both Jones brothers, David, and Emma - and convenes a meeting to discuss how things - show wise and business wise - will proceed from here on out.

“It’s really up to however things go for the JoBros Co.,” Jefferson explains, directing his attention toward the brothers. “Of course, the three of us are at the beck and call of your business. I know it hasn’t been long, but have you had time to discuss what the plan is now that you’ve only got the  _ Jolly Roger _ ?”

Liam and Jones share a look, one that says ‘we have but we’re not entirely set on it and, because of that, we don’t necessarily want to share it with you nosy people.’ But Liam sighs and regards Jefferson.

“We’re going to look into getting another trawler,” he says. “Thankfully, we were already doing that before the  _ Jewel _ went down. But in the meantime, we’re just going to switch in some of my crew for that of the  _ Roger _ ’s every couple of days. Encourage everybody to take some extra vacation time before season’s end and then hopefully have a second ship by the start of the next.” Looking to his younger brother for agreement, Liam nods. “Is that going to work for you guys?”

“I don’t see why not,” Jefferson says. “Emma, you’ll still be lead camera since you know the ship, but I suppose you and David can coordinate something together. Figure it out.”

“Of course,” David answers, winking at her. “You can spend a couple days with Henry before school starts back up.”

(Not that she really has a choice on the matter, but that’s the point that sells her. Her son’s going off to middle school come September, so this might be the last summer where he’ll want to soar down the slip and slide or be seen at the public pool together without being an embarrassed almost teenager.)

Still, though, there’s something that doesn’t sit right with her about this plan. It’s something she caught in the look between brothers, a sympathetic tilt to the younger’s head to the elder’s verbalized plan.

“Are you sure this is good with you guys?” she asks. “You’re both captains, you’re both used to being in charge of your own crew and ship.”

Liam shrugs. “The  _ Roger  _ is still Killian’s ship,” he explains. “Should he want a break, I’ll be happy to take over for a bit. But I should think it’s about time my little brother takes the reins of the family business.”

From across the table, Emma hears Killian grumble “younger brother” under his breath, but his countenance seems overall pleased, even if Liam, under the surface, doesn’t seem too thrilled at the idea of his baby brother taking charge.

“So it’s settled then.” Jefferson claps his hands, always enthusiastic, and stands from his seat. “Emma, I’ll ask that you take the first shift next time these boys decide to head out just so Mary Margaret doesn’t murder me in my sleep for keeping her husband from healing.”

“I’m not even hurt,” David groans, rubbing his hand against his forehead. “Liam was the one in the hospital for ruptured stomach or whatever.”

“Nevertheless, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of a worried woman and her ‘ailing’ husband.” Jefferson adds the air quotes and everything, making Emma and the Joneses burst into laughter. David blushes out of embarrassment, and tries to hide his face in the table. 

(To be honest, it only makes Emma laugh harder.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS, LIAM IS OKAY. OKAY? AND HE'S GOT A LADY ADMIRER TO BOOT. The amount of crap I nearly received last chapter about the drama was insane. Also, we're going to subtitle this chapter "The One Where You Get a Hint of Everyone's Romantic Relationships, but Not Nearly Enough to Whet Your Need."  
> Thank you, as always, to you, my reading, ship-obsessed friends, as well as to shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, sotheylived, and captainswanbigbang on the tumblr for doing their things for this story. 17/10 would work with them again.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHO'S READY FOR SOME ACTION AND EMOTIONS?!

With the addition of forced vacation days, summer flies by. Next thing she knows, Emma’s watching Henry walk down the street to the bus stop again, ready to start a new school year in middle school. 

Around the same time, Emma finds herself back in the comfort of her closest friends. It’s a rare day where the original  _ Jolly Roger  _ crew is back together. With the fluid change in ship roster these days, it’s only happens a handful of times between the decision being made and mid-September. While all of the Joneses’ employees work like a well-oiled machine when on the water, there’s something special about having the old band of misfits back together. Especially when Mother Nature decides to show her wrath.

This storm sets upon the  _ Jolly Roger _ with almost no warning. None of Jones’ mutterings about red morning skies or ache in the bones. One moment, the sky is bright and sunny, and the next, dark clouds roll in and thunder claps. They’re coming in from a long day when the storm breaks, a stone’s throw from the entrance to the sound.

“Stay steady, men!” Killian shouts from his place at the captain’s wheel. “Swells are up to 20 feet!”

“The wind, Jones!” Scarlet yells. “We can’t hear you over the wind!”

Of course, Emma can hear him because she’s situated herself at the bottom of the ladder leading up to his roost, but she’s forced to interfere a little bit in reality when Robin and Scarlet shout back.

“He said swells are up to 20 feet!” Emma responds, a wet strand of hair immediately finding her open mouth. Spitting it out, she quickly pushes it back under the hood of her jacket. 

“Christ,” she barely hears Robin say. 

“Talk to me, Robin!” she shouts. “Tell me about the storm!”

“He bloody well can’t!” Scarlet screams. “We tryin’ to keep ourselves alive!”

Grumbling to herself, Emma sets off toward the underbelly of the ship, trying to find Whale. He’s never pleasant to talk to and probably won’t be nicer considering the circumstances, but she needs someone to explain what’s going on, what needs to be done in this sort of weather.

(In hindsight, she realizes that she could’ve waited until they got to shore. A voiceover would’ve sufficed just as nicely.)

Another wave pounds at the starboard side of the ship, effectively knocking Emma down on her ass with gallons of seawater. It’s then that she finds Whale floundering on the deck, struggling to tie down the remaining cages. So he’s useless for any interview as well. 

“Get inside!” Robin yells, pushing her toward the galley. “Captain will want us buckled down.”

But, being the intrepid camerawoman she is, Emma nods to Robin and immediately hazards her way toward the captain’s post. If his crew is settling in to wait out the rest of the storm, the mounted cameras can get that. She needs to get inside the mind of the person all of their lives depend on right now.

She reaches the top of the ladder miraculously unscathed, though the same can’t be said for the door leading into the room. Something about the storm - the wind, a rogue wave, whatever - has broken the bottom hinge, leaving it slightly askew in its place. Edging around it, Emma finds herself confronted with a calm and collected Jones.

She, on the other hand, is trying not to panic.

(Robin was right: she should have followed them downstairs.)

Her job forgotten, the camera still rolling and focused on Jones at the wheel, Emma’s mind goes blank. Before her, a wave rises well above the roof of the captain’s roost, the highest point on the entire ship. By some miracle, it doesn’t immediately crash on top of them. Pulling at levers and pushing at buttons, Killian guides them up the swell.

She’s practically laying against the back wall, looking at the gray sky and the gray sky alone through the front window. There’s no way that this little boat can make it back to shore in these conditions. The wood is creaking too frequently, the tubs behind her splashing around too violent, the fish cages clanging together too loudly. 

As cliché as it sounds, Emma swears her life flashes before her eyes as raindrops lash at the window before her eyes. The chances of her – an inexperienced civilian wearing easily half of her weight in camera equipment – surviving if this ship goes down are slim to none. 

Emma thinks of Henry, naturally. He’s with Ruby right now, if she remembers correctly, probably worrying himself sick. In confidence, Ruby told her that her son will sit at the bay window in the hallway above the diner and watch for the _Jolly Roger_ to come in whenever she’s working. Emma doesn’t want to even want to think about what happens on the day where the ship doesn’t float in.

But then they crest over that wave and immediately start the climb up another one.

“Emma,” Killian says, his voice untroubled. “Emma, I need you to look out the side window and tell me if anything is coming. I need you to tell me if any waves are going to break on us.”

Gulping at the knot in her throat, she nods. “How do I know if they’re going to break on us?” she asks, feeling like a complete moron.

Almost breaking the tension, Jones chuckles. Emma glances over long enough to see him shake his head. “If it’s coming toward us, that’s your first hint. Then if you beginning to see the white foam toward the top, that’s when you should yell as loud as your lovely self can.”

Nodding again, Emma turns her attention to the window. In the corner of the windowpane, she spots something dark, darker than the ocean and the rest of the waves.

“Um, Killian,” she hesitates quietly. “What about if I see something that looks like a jetty?”

Killian’s “What?!” is overpowered by the radio, issuing a loud “ _ Jolly Roger _ , turn south, beware the outpost.”

“Fuck!” Jerking the wheel to the right, Killian is forced to brace himself with his one foot against the wall while Emma grasps at the counter in front of her. Once they straighten out a bit, she hears him mumble, “Lads won’t let me hear the last of that.”

“What the fuck was that?” she asks exasperatedly. 

“You see how far the sightline is, love,” he responds quickly, still focused on the waves rising and falling before him. “Despite my godlike looks, I am merely a human, and that species is known to make mistakes.”

The ship crests another wave and off in the distance, Emma spots town. With the jetty to her side, she realizes they must be in the sound, one of the notoriously dangerous parts of coming into harbor. Something about the cold water from the ocean mixing with warm water of the sound makes the waves raucous and balance-bending. 

But, the seasoned professional that he is, Jones guides his ship and its crew up and over wave after wave, the only hint that he’s under pressure and nervous the tip of his tongue sticking out between his lips. Running on autopilot, Emma zooms in on his profile from her position, making sure to catch the tongue.

It’s a tense twenty or so minutes where everything is silent, save for the smacking of the water against the hull, and then -

“ _ Jolly Roger _ , you’re safe,” the Coast Guard crackles over the radio. “Good job, captain.”

Grabbing the walkie with his right hand and steering the ship back toward its dockings, Killian says, “Thanks very much, mate.  _ Jolly Roger _ to dock, over.”

Emma remains silent **,** relishing in the way the ship now calmly battles the waves **,** until Jones makes it through the harbor, pulls up to the wooden dock, and shouts down to the rest of the crew, hidden in the belly of the boat. He sighs.

“Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it, love?” he asks, a relieved smile growing on his face.

Speechless, she pushes the camera as far out of the way as possible and rushes to Killian. She presses her face into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. With little hesitation, he responds much the same. His arms cross over her shoulders and he pulls her as close as he can with the camera strapped to her body.

“Thank you, Killian,” she whispers into his collarbone. “Thank you for getting us home safe.”

She feels the tip of his nose bury into her hair. “Worry not, Swan,” he assures her. “I promised your boy I’d bring you home. I’ve no intention of breaking my word.”

A sob gets choked in her throat and Emma squeezes Jones harder. Her emotions are so out of whack right now, probably from the receding flood of adrenaline in her veins. She manages to calm down, though, because of the soothing stroke of Jones’ thumb across her shoulder. He shushes her gently, easing her through whatever’s happening right now.

“Everything’s fine, Emma.” She barely notices that he uses her first name. Though she’s grown accustomed to saying his given name, Emma realizes he doesn’t often call her anything but Swan and love **.** Something about the perilousness they’ve just experienced must’ve flipped a switch in him. But she likes it, the way his lips wrap around the M’s in her name. It’s comforting, made even more so by his next words.

“You’re safe now. We’re home.”

Nodding into his chest, Emma stifles a final, weak sob and pulls back. She wipes at her eyes, pretending for her own sake that she’s fixing her makeup. When she’s finished cleaning herself up, she’s met with Killian’s deep eyes. His brow is cocked with an unspoken question:  _ Are you okay? _

“I’m fine,” she murmurs, sniffing again. When he tilts his head to the side, Emma can’t help but let out a watery chuckle. “Really. I’m fine. I just want to get on steady land and see Henry.”

“Then let’s go do that.” Killian leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead, the first time he’s openly displayed affection toward her publically and sober. Her entire body warms, a blush spreading from where his lips touch her down to her cheeks and further. “Come now. I’ve got to get a scolding from my crew.”

Emma laughs a little harder, a little more normally, and let’s Jones usher her down the ladder first.

“Oi, what the fuck was that, mate?” Scarlet bellows as her foot hits the main deck, unstrapping herself from the camera getup. He’s leading the way, Robin and Whale storming behind him from below decks. “A little more warning woulda been peachy.”

Sighing, Killian opens his arms wide. “I’ll let you have at me properly, but I think we ought to let the lady get on land so she can check on her son,” he suggests.

Scarlet fumes, obviously wanting to tell his captain  _ exactly  _ what he thinks of his decisions right now, but Robin grips him on the shoulder.

“C’mon, Will,” he pleads. “I’m angry with the git too, but Emma’s probably dying to see Henry.” He glances over at her as she sets the camera configuration on the deck. “Isn’t that right, Emma?”

“Yeah,” she agrees weakly. “I mean, I want to ream him too, but I just want to hug my son right now.”

After Scarlet nods sternly, they start the process of docking, finishing it in record time. The ropes are barely tied to their moors when Emma hears pounding footsteps on the dock and Henry appears, Ruby jogging behind him. 

“Mom!”

“Oh god, Henry!” She practically jumps off the boat, wincing at the twinge in her knees and ankle when she lands. But then Henry’s wrapped up in her arms and everything that’s happened in the last hour seems distant. She lifts him up and swings him from side to side in pure joy. “Oh god, kid, am I happy to see you.”

“The storm came in and Ruby told me you guys hadn’t come in yet,” he mumbles into her shoulder. His grip is strong for a kid his age and it makes Emma feel all the more happy she’s back. “I was so scared.”

She kisses the top of his head, getting a mouthful of hair, before crouching down in front of him. Her baby boy’s getting so tall – now when she does that, he looks down at her instead of straight into her eyes. “I know, Henry, but I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” he asks timidly.

Laughing, Emma nods. “Yeah. A little shaken up, but okay.”

He jumps and hugs her again, causing her to fall back on the damp wood. She feels the wetness begin to soak through the seat of her pants, but she can’t find herself to care. Ruby catches her eye, smiling gently at the mother-son scene unfolding before her.

“He was in the window the entire time,” she says. “I thought the storm might blow him away.”

“No, that wouldn’t happen, would it, kid?”

“Nope.” Pulling back from their embrace, Henry stares at her, hands on her shoulders. “Is everyone else okay?”

“Fit as a fiddle, lad,” Killian announces, clunking down the gangplank. Henry’s head turns faster than Emma ever thought it could as if to confirm Jones’ words himself. “The rest of the crew is a bit rattled and feisty, but we’re all alive, too.”

“Thank goodness,” Emma hears Ruby mumble. From the corner of her eye, she catches her friend standing on her tiptoes, attempting to peer over the edge of the ship. 

(It seems that the wolf inside her friend has finally found a mate of sorts.)

Surprising all three adults, Henry releases his grip on her to wrap his arms around Killian’s waist. He stumbles backward a bit, his arms up in surrender and his gaze down at the boy. Finally, he returns the action, his arms curling around Henry’s shoulders. 

“I promised I’d keep your mum safe,” he reminds him gently. “I don’t intend on breaking my promise.”

Still sitting on the damp wooden dock, Emma bites at her lip to keep tears at bay. She’s been struck by this feeling before - the all-encompassing warmth that surrounds her when she sees a man totally taken by her son - but seeing Henry returning it in a moment of adrenaline and high emotions solidifies what Emma already knew: Killian Jones, whether he likes it or not, is now a part of their life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to you, my reading, ship-obsessed friends, as well as to shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, sotheylived, and captainswanbigbang for doing their things for this story. 17/10 would work with them again.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome to another episode of what in the world are you doing to me, Maggie? In this episode, we’ll feature adorable drunks, bedsharing, and sexytime boot scenes. Tune in for that and more, coming up!
> 
> A million and bajillion thanks to shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, sotheylived, and those crazy kids at captainswanbigbang. With each new chapter, I get a little sadder that this project is wrapping up and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank them enough.

A couple nights later, Henry sleeps over at Grace’s house after a long week at school and Emma takes advantage of the empty house by getting drunk on the rum Killian and Liam brought over for Christmas - which she still hasn't finished m. It’s not the smartest idea she’s had ever, but work has been rough lately. Since she doesn’t like to drink immensely with her son around, she tends to go hard on the few occasions Henry’s gone. Sad movies, drinking out of the bottle, the whole nine yards. 

She’s probably a half hour into _Pretty Woman_ \- Julia Roberts telling off that snotty woman at the store is her favorite part, let’s be honest - when it starts to rain and Emma, perhaps influenced by the copious amounts of alcohol she’s consumed, goes outside to take it in. It seems to fit the mood: getting wasted and hanging out in the rain, letting the water wash away whatever worries and negative thoughts are bumping around in her brain. It’s rejuvenating, even if a bit chilly. 

Which explains why when she gets a burst of energy, she absolutely has to run down to the Joneses’ house. What’s a better way to warm up then to run?

It really is freeing, having the raindrops pelt against her skin and drench her sweatpants. She makes it up to their front door without feeling out of breath at all, and knocks on the door with a bright, wide smile on her face **.**

While she waits, Emma realizes she’s stepped in a puddle or two on the way down there. The bottom of her pants pull the rest of them down, her bare ankles and feet nearly covered in the excess wet fabric. She crouches down to roll them up a little bit, but her hands aren’t working properly. 

She’s still trying to hike up her pants - or maybe the mission has changed to wringing out the water - when the door creaks open and Killian answers, confused.

“You should really do something about your puddles.” she says in greeting, rising and effectively giving up on whatever she was trying to do.

“Pardon, love?”

“Your puddles,” she repeats, pointing behind her. **“** You should do something about them because they were in my way and I stepped in them and now my feet are wet.”

“Swan, are you…” he starts, and then dissolves into chuckles. “Swan, are you drunk?”

She shrugs, nervously twisting at the waist. “I’ve had a drink,” she admits. **“** Or seven.”

His chuckles grow louder as he shoots her a delighted smile. “Oh Swan,” he murmurs, holding out his hand. Naturally, she takes it. **“** My lovely adorable drunken Swan.” That makes her happy, a dopey grin growing on her face as she takes a step closer to him. “Where’s Henry?”

“He’s at a sleepover.”

“Well, I suppose it’s good you don’t have to care for him tonight.” Killian ushers her inside, tugging on her hand. He disappears for a moment, letting her drip alone on the hardwood floors of the entryway, and comes back with a pair of socks way too big for her as she ungracefully flops on the couch. Ever the gentleman, he takes one of her legs and places it on his lap, carefully rolling the socks up and onto her foot. He does the same thing with her foot, before tapping her shins.

“I’d suggest we start a fire, but we haven’t any firewood, so I’m sorry about that.”

“But then we could make s’mores.”

He laughs **,** sparking some warmth within her better than any fire could. “Yes, Swan, we could, but that would involve burning some furniture and I shouldn’t think Liam would be too pleased with me.”

She sighs dramatically, sinking further into the cushions. “Who cares?” She gets up, goes to kitchen to get herself some water, and peruses the fridge’s contents. Even the mention of s’mores makes her hungry for something sweet. Maybe they’ve got whipped cream and ice cream.

Emma opens up the freezer at the same time, trying to focus one eye on each side of the appliance, but all it’s doing is giving her a headache. She shivers.

“Is there something specific you’re looking for?” The contrast of the cool blast in front of her and the heat of his body behind her is far more intoxicating than the alcohol she’s drunk. It forces her to unconsciously sway back into him, her shoulders gently nudging into his chest. She takes a swig of water and turns around, letting both doors close behind her.

“No. Not really.” She shivers again.

Killian gazes down at her, a little smirk on the corner of his lips. “You should get out of those wet clothes,” he says, taking a step back. **“** Can’t have the boss falling ill, can we?” He takes her hand once more and drags her to the laundry room.

“I’m not your boss,” she whines **,** coming to a stop right in the doorway. Killian releases her and goes digging through the clean laundry. He hands her a shirt and a pair of shorts from atop the washer. “What are these for?” she asks **.**

“Change into them.” He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. Through the wood, he says, “Change and throw your wet ones in the dryer. And when you can’t figure out which buttons to press, go ahead and shout.”

Emma wrinkles her nose. “I know what buttons to press, asshat,” she shouts.

She strips down and throws her clothes in the machine. She puts his shirt on and take a quick sniff and, ugh, even his shirt smells good. 

(Bastard.)

She wants to prove him wrong, she really does because she’s  _ not  _ that drunk. She ran down here, didn’t she? And she didn’t fall flat on her face nor did she get any glass in her feet or skin her knees on rocks. Emma is a strong independent woman who doesn’t need help from any man.

“Killian!” she yells. “Killian, the dryer is broken!”

Far too quickly, he enters the mudroom chuckling. “Are the words moving as well?” he asks. “Is that how it’s broken?”

“The buttons won’t go down.”

“That’s because you’re not pressing on the buttons, you’re pressing about two inches above the buttons.” He programs the machine and it starts to rumble to life. When he sees she isn’t completely dressed, he turns away **,** the one ear she can spot tingeing red. “Those shorts should fit you. A conquest of Liam’s left them behind.”

Looking down at herself, Emma can see that the hem of his shirt covers her ass and, yes, it falls a little high on her thigh, but she’s covered. When she goes to give him a sassy reply, he’s already gone. To appease him, she forces her legs into the gym shorts, grumbling under her breathe the entire time.

Emma heads back to the living room and sprawls her body across the couch. “Where is Liam, anyways?” she asks **.**

“Last I knew, he was on a date with Ms. Belle French.”

“I knew it.”

Killian replies in surprise. **“** You know her?”

Shrugging, Emma begins to play with the tips of her hair, curling them around her finger in front of her face. “She hung out with Liam in the hospital when you needed to shower. And Henry reads like I film during the summer. We always gets to know the librarians.” She sighs and nods harshly. **“** About time. Good for them. Good match.”

“I’d have to agree,” he says, joining her on the sofa. Killian stares at her feet for a moment before deciding to forcibly lift her feet so he can sit. Her heels come to settle on the tops of his thighs **. “** The lads and I have been trying to get them to agree to dinner for quite some time.”

“That’s nice **.** ” Emma crinkles her nose, overwhelmed by the menial tasks of comprehending Liam’s love life as well as the comforting feel of physical touch.

Naturally - and drunkenly, let’s face it - she decides that’s been enough of that.

“I should probably leave then,” she says. Emma takes her feet from Killian’s lap and struggles to get vertical. Crossing her arms over her chest, she shrugs again, this time much more awkwardly **.** “Wouldn’t want to intrude of any after-date activities.”

“No.” Following her suit, Killian stands, reaching out to rest his hand on her arm, steadying her. There’s a bit of urgency or something else along the same lines in his voice that surprises her. “He’ll text me if something should occur, though I don’t think it will.”

“Yeah, Belle is a bit of a prude.”

“Emma,” he scolds her sternly. “Watch your tongue. That’s not only my brother’s date, but a friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, licking her lips. “I don’t know why I said that. Belle’s super nice.” He’s still touching her, his hand slowly falling down toward her wrist, and it’s a bit distracting. She shakes her head, trying to clear the fog in her mind, regardless of whether it originated from alcohol or tension. “Can we watch a movie or something?” Emma asks, her gaze flicking toward the TV to her right.

He chuckles. “First you show up at my house unannounced, nearly break my dryer, insult my brother’s date, and now you ask if we can watch a movie?”

She shrugs, casually returning to the couch. “I’m not used to being in that big house alone.” Emma lies down again, letting her body span the length of the couch. With one eye squinted, she looks up at Killian. “So can we?”

Killian sighs and takes a seat on the couch once more, lifting her feet up to take their place and setting them gently on his lap. “What genre do you want?” he inquires, stretching out to the coffee table for the remote and turning on the TV. Save for the shift of bending forward, Emma’s feet stay snug on his lap.

“Something funny,” she requests. “Or something with a car chase.”

“How about  _ Hot Fuzz _ ?”

“Never seen it.”

She’s staring at the screen, which automatically scrolls through newly-added titles instead of the quick flicking Killian usually took to. Glancing down the couch from her, Emma sees his eyebrows touch the tips of his bangs **.** “Then that’s it,” he declares, leaning closer to her. “It’s both funny and has a car chase.”

Emma gasps dramatically **,** her hand falling on her chest. “Be still my beating heart.”

“You’re going to love it, Swan,” Killian assures her, searching through the menu until he finds it.

After pressing play, he rests his hands on her, one on her foot and the other on ankle. It’s almost domestic, like they’re on a date night in or something, the rain gently pitter-pattering on the windows and the hum of the movie on in the background. The alcohol still buzzes through her veins and gives her an overall sense of contentment. Her eyes begin to droop and she must fall asleep, for the next thing she knows, she is coming to surrounded by fluffy pillows and a luxurious blanket that most certainly aren’t hers.

The beginnings of a hangover headache gently knock on the inside of her forehead. Emma groans and fights her way out of the little cocoon she’d wrapped herself in. Her feet touch hardwood floors and she  _ knows  _ she’s not home.

“Killian,” she grumbles, wiping at the sleep still in her eyes. Her voice is deep and gravelly, so she clears her throat and repeats herself a bit louder.

Her ears perk up at the sound of quick footsteps in the hallway and before she can properly search the room for a weapon against an intruder, the door creaks open and Killian’s face peeks in.

“Everything alright, Swan?” he asks, his voice scratchy as well.

Emma pushes herself off the mattress and walks toward the door while Killian presses it open wider. “Yeah, I was just surprised to wake up not in my bed,” she explains.

“Oh,” he says, his voice and eyes falling a bit. “I thought I heard you call for me.”

“I mean I did,” she admits. “Kind of. I was trying to figure out what was going on with my voice.” His mouth opens slightly in understanding. “How did you hear that?”

“Ah,” Killian says with a smirk. He gestures to the room next door. “I was resting in Liam’s room. For as lavish as this house looks, the walls are deceptively thin.”

Emma nods, glancing about the room. “So this is your bedroom?”

“Yeah.” She hums, taking it in. It’s pretty sparse, but somehow perfectly encapsulates Killian. His window looks over the backyard and the waters beyond. The floor is spotless, his closet doors and drawers closed completely. A few aesthetic pictures - mostly of ships, unsurprisingly - decorate the walls and his dresser has a few shells and what looks like a photograph of the  _ Roger’s  _ crew on display.

(The man lives and breathes the sea.)

A movement catches her eye and she looks at him as he goes to scratch behind his ear. “I figured it’d be bad form for you to be woken if my brother and Belle decided to come in.”

“He’s not home yet?” she asks. “What time is it?”

“Close to two, I think.”

Silence falls between them, Emma hovering by his bed and Killian still standing in the doorway. “I should get home,” she murmurs, searching for her phone and readying herself to cool dampness outside.

“Don’t.” His request startles her, the earnestness and sincerity behind it confusing. She whirls around to face him and, if she’s not mistaken, she detects a hint of a blush on Killian’s cheeks. “You’re still a little inebriated, which means I would have to walk back with you and it’s still raining,” he explains. His hand casually gestures between the two of them before falling to his side. “Besides, you don’t want to be alone.”

Ignoring the army of butterflies that begin fluttering in her stomach - he remembered, she didn’t want to be alone - Emma’s independence roars its head. “I could walk home fine by myself,” she insists.

Killian gives her a side eye and scolds her in a low voice: “Swan.”

They stare each other, mentally willing the opponent to concede. Always up for a challenge, Killian takes a step closer to her, and Emma does the same, until they’re sock-clad to bare feet. 

(It’s not fair, her mind tells her. Even when he’s not doing anything, the color of his eyes are distracting.)

“Fine,” Emma finally says on a groan. “I’ll stay here tonight.”

Grinning wide, Killian wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her into his body. His warm, sturdy body, a weakness even when she’s completely sober and awake. It’s basically her kryptonite now that she’s coming down from intoxication and a nap.

Emma hears the tell tale sound of the front door opening and closing a floor below them. The heavy fall of male footsteps swiftly follow. 

“Looks like Liam’s home,” she remarks quietly, pulling away from Killian’s embrace.

“Indeed,” he murmurs, letting her move freely. He takes a step back, closer to the door. “I’m going to speak with him, but you can go back to bed. I’ll bring you some water.”

She nods absentmindedly before his words really register. “Wait, where are you going to sleep?”

“The couch,” he said, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world. Then he points to himself, a wry smile growing on his face. “Gentleman, remember?”

“Killian, no, I’ll sleep on the couch,” Emma offers, moving toward the bedroom door herself. “I came here unannounced and interrupted your night. Let me sleep on the couch.”

“I won’t have it, Swan.”

Groaning, she throws her hands up in the air, exasperated. “Fine. Then we’ll share your bed.”

“What? That, Swan, sounds like the exact opposite of any sort of solution.”

“No.” Emma, grumpy as she is from being woken from her nap, makes it back to the rumpled sheets of the bed and sits on them, staring intently back at Killian. “You won’t let me sleep on the couch and I demand you sleep in your bed.” She throws her arms wide, gesturing toward the empty side of the mattress. “It’s big enough for the both of us.”

Killian glances over his shoulder quickly before shutting the door. “Of course,” he mumbles, shuffling over the hardwood toward the bed. “Won’t even notice you’re here.”

“Thank you.” Now that he’s settling into his side of the bed, Emma allows herself to bury beneath the covers, barely warm from her earlier snooze. She sighs contently and falls unconscious with the echo of Killian’s constant breathing ringing in her ears.

0000

She’s awoken at a much more reasonable hour by the heat of a heavy weight on her hip. On her hip and across her stomach. It’s not uncomfortable, per se, just unusual. Henry’s not one to cuddle up to her like this. No, her son is very much a child to lay on top of her, just as she positioned him on her chest soon after he was born.

But this weight comes with more hair and muscles than any 11-year-old should have, even if they’re a chronic steroid abuser. As she’s waking up - much faster than she originally thought she would - Emma comes to realize that it’s not Henry. 

It’s Killian.

Emma breathes deeply through her nose, a reaction of surprise more than anything. It’s been a long time since she slept - just slept - with anyone who wasn’t Henry. It’s comforting, she finds, coming to with the knowledge that someone else is beside you. 

Carefully, she turns about to face Killian, trying her best to keep his arm around her. He’s a lot closer than she expected: her nose skims the tip of his as she establishes herself in her new position. 

For a moment, she observes him in what will likely be the last moments of unconsciousness. He’s always been a looker, she won’t deny herself that. But there’s something about him when he’s not putting on an act. He’s not in front of the camera, pulling off the dickish captain, or Liam, acting as the worshipful little brother. There’s lines around his lips that show past laughter and bags under his eyes from endless night at sea and otherwise. 

He’s even more handsome like this. 

She must unconsciously move some part of her body, for Killian stirs, his eyes blinking away the remnants of sleep slowly. His vision must come into focus because he squints, as if he doesn’t really understand the sight before him. 

“I insisted on sharing the bed ‘cause I couldn’t stand the idea of you sleeping on the couch,” she explains quietly, running her hand up his arm. It’s the first question she would’ve asked - what are you doing here? - were she in his situation.

Killian opens his mouth with an  _ ah  _ of comprehension. “I do remember that now,” he says. “Practically dragged me into bed, if I recall.”

“Did not,” she chuckles, squeezing his upper arm. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Perhaps.” His hand tightens at her back as he stretches, chin dipping to his chest and legs extending beneath the sheets. When he settles, his blue eyes connect with hers. “Although you have to understand why I’d think that when I have a lovely woman who forced me here in the first place is wound around me.”

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but I’m the one who woke up with someone hanging off me.”

He sighs, burrowing his face into her neck. Emma can’t help but giggle. 

(She tries not to focus on how nice this feels, the scratch of his scruff on her still sleep-warm skin, the comfort she draws from his breath on the crook of her neck. It’s more than she thinks she can handle.)

Killian keeps his face buried in its spot, his thumb rubbing at the small of her back. She returns the favor, moving her hand up into his hair and echoing the motion. They stay wrapped up in one another for what could be minutes or hours. Emma can’t be sure.

“I don’t think I realized how nice this is,” Emma says softly, trying to extend the moment for as long as possible. At his indistinct questioning noise, she adds, “Just sort of hugging someone. Holding and being held.”

Readjusting to be better heard, Killian asks, “How long has it been since someone held you, Swan?”

Emma shrugs, her voice going deep and hoarse. “I couldn’t even guess.”

“I’m glad I could be of service.” Groaning, Killian extricates himself from her hold, sitting up and scooting back until he sits against the headboard. His arms go up, coming to rest behind his head and Emma feels the loss keenly. “If you should need anything else, I shall strive to be of assistance.”

As silence settles between them, a traitorous thought pops into Emma’s mind. There is one thing he can... _ assist _ her with.

(And honestly, the fact that she’s even considering this means  _ something.  _ What exactly, she can’t be sure, but she  _ is _ sure that in this moment, with him, she feels warm and safe and happy.)

Before she can stop herself, Emma leans forward, cupping his face in her hands. She kisses him, almost attacking him how hard she presses her lips to his. And for one moment, she’s shocked him. It’s a bit like kissing a pillow or a dead fish, something that doesn’t kiss back. For a moment, she regrets even thinking there was any sort of attraction between her and him, even though they’ve done this before. Maybe all those times was just the alcohol talking.

But then Killian’s one hand is tangled in her hair and the other is wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer to him, causing her to straddle his legs. He tugs at her hair to direct her, tilting his head in turn.

“Emma,” he mumbles, his lips leaving hers. “We shouldn’t. You’re-”

“Please,” she whispers, her voice hoarse again. He pulls back a fraction and she shakes her head. “Killian, I swear, I want this. This isn’t alcohol or the moment or whatever or anything. This…” Her laughter fans off his cheek and back to her ears. She’s nearly breathless when she admits, “This is a long time coming.”

Even as close as they are, Emma can still catch the raised brow he sends her. She feels the grin against her own lips. “Are you saying you’re in this for the long haul?” he murmurs back. 

She chuckles again. “Let’s start with the one time and reassess from there.”

Killian adjusts her on his lap, pulling her hips closer into his. “Well, if I only get one time, I’m damn well sure going to make it count, love.”

He’s passionate, to say the least. His lips are insistent on the skin of her neck, leaving marks and bruises and making her sigh in pleasure more than she’s ever done in her life. Back with Neal, he’d been more to the point: get her wet enough to get his dick in without hurting her, then getting himself off in as few minutes as possible. Between borrowed rooms and simple selfishness, she’s sure, there was never really time for them to actually enjoy sexual acts. 

But this. This makes her toes curl. Feeling his mouth follow as she swallows, his nose brush against the tense tendons of her neck. He bites softly at her collarbone through her shirt and, if she were younger, she’d lose her mind completely. 

“Fucking fuck,” she breathes, enjoying the new-old feelings that bubble up in her stomach.

“Finally,” Killian chuckles against her skin, words partially garbled as he moves back to her neck. “A verbal reaction.”

Glancing down as best she can, Emma asks, “Is that what you’re trying to get out of me?” When he doesn’t answer immediately, she grabs at his hair and gently tugs it back to look him in the eye.

“Among other things,” he admits with that smirk of his. “I like to think of verbal responses as the gateway to the rest of your inner thoughts.”

“Trust me, you do not want to be inside of my head.”

“Your head is not the first thing of yours I want to be inside right now.” He cocks his eyebrow, his tongue peeking out from between his lips. “But if it takes me that way, then I’ll gladly take the detour.”

Emma’s laugh turns to breathy moans as his hand falls a little lower and he grabs at her ass **.** “Fuck, Killian.” 

He stops.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it again.”

His words catch her off guard. All she’s said is...oh. _Oh_. “Killian, please,” she groans again, taking joy in the way his breath catches in how his name comes out. She realizes then that, though she’s trying her best, she still doesn’t use his given name too often. To say it in an intimate context as this - she gets it.

(She wonders if he gets the same thrill in the pit of his stomach as she does when the Ms in her name roll off his tongue.)

“Fuck, Emma.” He attacks her anew, pulling at the collar of her shirt to reach still-untouched skin. Her head rolls back on her neck, relishing in the feel of teeth lightly nipping at her collarbone.

“That’s the goal,” she responds belatedly.

He chuckles against her sternum. “My god, Swan, your commentary is both welcomed and unnecessary.”

“How so?” Emma asks, arching her back unconsciously, trying to get closer to him as his nose skims across sensitive skin.

Pressing a kiss to the side of her breast, still tucked away in her bra and shirt from last night, Killian rises up so he’s face to face with her. “I’m a fan of every part of you,” he whispers into her pulse point. “From the snark to the sky high walls I’m knocking down brick by brick.”

A sappy smile crosses Emma’s face. “Stop talking like that, you’ll build them again.”

Killian mimics it, smacking his lips to hers before working his way further down her body. “Then by all means,” he mutters.

She’s got more hickeys in this moment than she’s ever had in her life combined, surely **-** she can feel at least three blooming on different places on her neck and another with the way he’s mouthing at her skin right now **-** and she loves it. Killian’s marking her as his, belongs to her, no one else’s but – 

“I’m not yours **,** ” she grumbles, her words a little muffled as, together, they quickly disrobe him of his shirt.

“What’s that now?” Killian asks **.**

“I’m not yours.” She pulls back for a moment to connect their gazes. It’s a bit silly, she’ll realize in the afterglow, because Emma knows that Killian knows her boundaries. But still, it’s important he understands. “I’m my own person. I am me and no one owns me. I’m just sort of…” with a hand on his shoulder, she gestures wildly with the other one, looking for the phrase best suited for the situation, “lending me to you.”

He cocks an eyebrow in question. “I know that, darling,” he answers, his thumb brushing at the underside of her bra. “I never asked or said otherwise.” Killian kisses her gently, lingering but not heating it up. “But I do hope you’d like to ‘lend’ for now at least, maybe longer.”

“One step at a time, Jones **,** ” Emma says with a chuckle. “For now, just kiss me again.”

He does as she wishes, a peck before whispering, “With pleasure.”

His hand may or may not drag up her outer thigh – and her inner thigh for that matter – while she scoots closer to him. And she  _ might  _ grind herself against him unabashedly but she doesn’t care. Killian has done so much for her and she so much for him since moving to Storybrooke and honestly? That shoulder to cry on he and his brother keep telling her about? She’s found it.

She’s found it in him.

He does something weird and oddly pleasant with his tongue, dragging it between her breasts above her shirt and she can’t be having that. Pushing him away gently, she tears her shirt up and over her head until just her bra is left.

“Go hard or go home, right?” she jokingly asks.

“Darling, your words couldn’t be more correct.” He grabs her by the wrist and pulls her hand down to his prominent erection, jutting up between their bodies.

“I feel like we should take care of that,” she quips.

Killian tilts his head to the side, rolling into her tightening grip. “Only if you want to.”

She smiles genuinely. “Are you not going to add ‘because I’m a gentleman’?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Well, I think this is the first time it actually fits.”

Killian draws back and rests a hand on his bare chest. “Love, that almost hurts me enough to diminish this.” He gestures down toward where they’re still clothed but connected, her hand still resting on him.

Emma places her hand atop his, and entwines their fingers together. “Alas, not enough completely.” She kisses him with renewed vigor. “I’ll have to assuage you somehow.”

His hand buries itself between her skin and her clothes, gripping at her ass beneath her pants.

(He’s an ass man. Killian Jones is most definitely an ass man.)

“I’ve got a couple of ideas on how to remedy that **,** ” he says with his signature smirk.

Emma returns it happily, her grin growing when his hand pulls her infinitesimally closer. “Oh, please, do tell.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly banter. So enjoy.  
> A million and bajillion thanks to shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, sotheylived, and those crazy kids at captainswanbigbang.  
>  With each new chapter, I get a little sadder that this project is wrapping up and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank them enough.

“We’re not getting another ship.” Killian slides onto the bench across from her at Granny’s, nabbing an onion ring as he scoots by her plate.

“What?” she asks, confused about both the statement and the idea that he thinks she won’t mind him stealing her onion rings. Rotating her plate so her rings are closest to her side of the table, Emma repeats herself. “What do you mean, you’re not getting another ship?”

He shrugs. Somehow, the action conveys sass. “What part don’t you understand, Swan? ‘We’ refers to my brother and I. ‘Are not’ means - ”

“I mean why aren’t you guys getting a new ship?” she interrupts, glaring at him. “You said you were looking into it before the  _ Jewel _ sunk. Why stop looking now that it has?”

Glancing anywhere but at her, Killian explains, “There’s nothing out in the market right now that’s what Liam’s looking for. I think he wants to try and salvage the  _ Jewel _ , build it up again from scratch and make some changes.”

“How long would that take?” she asks, ticking her head to the side. 

“It’s anybody’s guess,” Killian says as Ruby comes up to their table with a smile on her face, asking Killian if he needs anything. He orders a cup of coffee, more out of kindness than necessity or desire. Once she’s gone to place his order, he looks back at Emma. “He’s calling up some of his mates in the Coast Guard and throughout the harbor to see if any one of them is willing to help haul what’s left on the shore back to a shop.”

“Huh,” she hums. It’s an interesting proposition, one that could make for good TV. She isn’t sure if that’s at all what they would want - they being the Jones brother or the executives - but it could be interesting. That is, so long as no one is breaking their contract. “Have you told Jefferson?”

Killian shakes his head. “He’s the next call, after Dave.” Reaching across the table, he steals another onion ring, narrowly avoiding Emma’s slap. He takes a bite and chews it for a moment. “I didn’t know Granny made onion rings,” he comments idly. 

Emma smirks, taking a bite out of one of her own rings. “She does for her favorite customers,” she snarks.

An extremely dramatic frown crosses his face. “I thought I was one of her favorites,” he mumbles. 

She knows he’s playacting for her pity, but Emma still feels the need to comfort him. “I don’t think there’s anyone in town who isn’t Granny’s favorite.” She reaches across the table to pat his hand. “Don’t worry, you’re one of my favorites,” she says. 

He grins. “As much as I will cherish that admission,  I don’t get free food out of our relationship.”

“Hey, I still have to pay for this stuff,” she whines. “And I can make you food.” His eyebrows shoot up and she shrugs. “It’d be free for you.”

“I feel like we’ll have more time for that in the near future, what with there being only one ship in our possession.” Sighing again, Killian rests his head on the table in front of him, grasping blindly for her hand. He entwines their fingers together. “What are we going to do, Emma?”

“I don’t know,” she grumbles, relishing in the warmth and weight of his hand in hers. “We’ll figure it out.” In the meantime, Emma uses her other hand to slide her plate reluctantly between them, a silent offer for assurance in the form of onion rings.

Peeking up from his arms, Killian smiles. He actually thanks her this time as he takes an onion ring and munches on it thoughtfully. “What do you think Jeff’s going to say about the show?” he asks. 

She shrugs this time. “He’s probably going to refer back to whatever contract you guys signed, then take it up to the channel execs. See what they say.” Ruby finally returns with his cup of coffee and another small plate of onion rings for her. “It’s a huge guessing game until the end of this season. I’m sure it won’t end badly. They might just find another trawler somewhere nearby and focus on them instead of the  _ Jolly Roger  _ and the  _ Jewel _ .” She rolls her eyes. “Who knows?”

Looking off into space, Killian reaches over to the plate of fresh onion rings, only to be met with empty air. He looks up to find Emma hoarding the plate close to her, Gollum protecting the one ring.

“I don’t care how good looking you are,” she threatens him. “You want onion rings? Fucking order some and stop stealing mine.”

A huge smile breaks across his face before he salutes her sarcastically. “Message received loud and clear, love.” Still, he actually stands up and grabs one last ring from her possession. “They just taste so much better when it makes you feisty.”

Bending over to press a short kiss to the top of her head, Killian pops  _ her _ onion ring into his mouth and smirks on the way out of Granny’s, leaving Emma fuming.

0000

Jefferson’s reaction, at least according to Liam and how Killian relays it to her on the phone later that night, is more positive than either of them had expected. While Emma prepared herself to hear about screaming and cursing in true Jeff fashion, Killian tells her that their producer understood considering the circumstances. 

“Liam said that Jeff said that he’d inform the proper executives and get back to me if there was anything else he needed,” his voice crackles through the line. Emma’s walking in the front door, a bag of Chinese food dangling off her elbow and her cell wedged between shoulder and ear. 

“Well, that sounds kind of promising,” she assures him, shutting the door behind her. “Hold on a second.” Taking the phone from her shoulder, Emma yells for Henry to set the table before returning to their conversation. “Do you think he’ll have something to get back to you with by the barbeque?” she asks.

“Dunno,” he grumbles. She can just imagine him scratching behind his ear, the uncertainty of the future causing a frustrated blush to rise on his neck. He sighs, and then says, “I’ll let you and the lad get to supping. See you soon, love.”

“Bye.”

Emma hopes for all their sakes and sanities that Jefferson does have something to tell the crew by the time the Nolans’ barbeque rolls around in a couple of days. It’s the end of summer though it feels more like fall, coming up on the end of regular trawling season, and to celebrate that or maybe just help each other grieve and mourn the recent past. Either way, Mary Margaret had brought up the idea and Emma had wholeheartedly volunteered her and Henry’s manpower to help set up.

“Mom, Phillip’s mom was gonna take us to a movie,” he complains where she tells him of their plans.

“Well, you’ll have to call Phillip and tell him sorry,” she says. “It’s going to be a beautiful day and David promised me there would be ice cream.” Flopping back on the couch they share and changing the channel, Emma adds, “Invite him to the party while you’re at it. Phillip and his parents.”

“This is Mary Margaret and David’s party, remember?”

She shrugs. “We’re setting it up, I’m saying we can invite people.”

And Emma really begins to agree with her own words as she’s helping David set up the eighth fold-out table in an hour in their backyard, his wife directing them on its placement and Henry plugging in lights around the fence. Mary Margaret keeps saying she needs to keep an eye on food she’s pre-cooking in the kitchen, but Emma’s sure she just doesn’t want to do the heavy lifting. Literally.

All the while, the possibility of having to leave Storybrooke - of no longer being able to use her son for chores, of no longer being close to Mary Margaret and David, or Ruby, or even the Joneses - lingers in her mind.

It’s something she doesn’t want to do unless it’s absolutely necessary.

But now that there isn’t a second boat and no intention of getting one, there might be no show that needs a camera for her to operate. She’s in a bit of a tight position. She has enough saved up for her and Henry to survive for a little while, but the mastering of camera operation can only take you so far in life.

These frightening thoughts sneak in and out of her mind during the party, almost ruining the beautiful sunset that cools what remains of a scorching day. Henry’s having a blast, he and Phillip shooting each other with water guns in between hot dogs and ice cream. Mary Margaret’s in full-on hostess mode, talking with everyone she walks by to make sure their drinks are cold and their stomach are satisfied. And David, standing next to Emma, taking in the scene with his own internal commentary.

“What am I going to do?” she asks David in one instance of darkened thought, beer in hand.

Reading her mind **,** he shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “What are  _ we _ going to do?”

Emma chuckles darkly **.** “At least Mary Margaret’s got a job.”

“Hey,” David reprimands her. With a shrug, she rolls her eyes at him. “I know you don’t particularly like asking for help, but you know you don’t have to do this alone.” Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he pulls her into his side, a brotherly gesture of comfort. “Some other project will come up. And in the meantime, enjoy your time with Henry. Relax.”

“Easier said than done, **”** she grumbles. She takes a swig of her beer only to find it empty. A frown growing on her face is halted by the somewhat magical appearance of another drink in David’s other hand.

“Maybe you just need a little push in the right direction,” he suggests, handing the beer over **.**

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

David nods to Killian, who’s now chasing after Henry and Roland, Liam and Robin and Regina laughing at his antics. He’s spent the majority of the evening doing so, choosing the adventures of children over alcohol for entertainment. Liam even had to scold him for running about the deck too fast. 

(He’d been sheepish naturally, being treated like a child, but Emma had to admit that the entire situation was adorable.)

“Don’t make me spell it out for you,” David nearly begs.

Catching his drift, Emma grimaces. “You’re gross.”

“I’m right.” She glares at him as he takes another drink of his beer, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smug smile. When he finishes, David shakes his head. “Look, I don’t want to know anything about it.”

“There’s nothing for you to know, we just - ”

“Don’t want to know,” he interrupts her, his hand coming up between them. “All I need to know is if he makes you happy. Because I can lie to myself all I want and pretend that you’re happier here because you have us. But even I have to admit you look a hell of a lot happier when he’s around these days.”

Taking a moment to contemplate the idea, Emma finally shrugs, hints of a smile curling the corners of her mouth. “I’m not unhappy.”

David nods once sharply. “Good enough for me,” he says, taking another drink. “The rest of that stuff, you can talk to Mary Margaret or Ruby. Not my department.”

Emma nudges his shoulder in good humor. “You mean you don’t want to know the intimate details about-”

“Nope,” he interrupts her. “Not my department. Not at all.”

With a nod and a smile, David takes his leave, mumbling something about making sure there’s enough food. It’s as much a fake excuse to get away from the uncomfortable conversation as it is an inside joke - like Mary Margaret would ever let anyone go hungry at her house.

As though his ears were burning, David’s space is quickly occupied by Killian himself, out of breathe and damp from being chased with water guns.

“Those lads are quick,” he says nonchalantly.

Emma chuckles. “What, Captain Hook can’t keep up with the Lost Boys now?” she teases him. “Finally admitting defeat and letting old age and a croc get you?”

Killian’s frown is so dramatic - honestly, it makes him look like a blobfish - that her laughter flourishes into guffaws and even a few tears. “I am affronted, Swan,” he says. his voice equally put off. “How dare you insult the captain as such. I should make you walk the plank!”

So she’s had a few drinks, as he probably has too, but that matter doesn’t do anything to quell the warmth that bubbles up inside with this ridiculous man next to her. She thinks of what David said and maybe it’s just become obvious to her how obvious she and Killian are together. How often and how much time they spend with each other, how their countenances change when in each other’s company. 

It nearly makes her sad when she forces the conversation to other, less amusing topics.

“Did Jefferson get back to you yet?”

Shaking his head, Killian runs a hand through his hair. “I even inquired about it the other day after Liam’s check up,” he tells her. “Alas, nothing from executives or any other higher up.”

“I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything,” Emma assures him, though a different discussion sets off in her mind. She knows better than Killian that, unlike in other realms of the world, no news in show business isn’t good news.  _ Sea of Chaos  _ is quite a money maker for the network: it’s grown a fanbase, it’s interesting enough and original enough that it could bring in more ratings, and the cast is memorable enough that they can quote them on merchandise. Changing it in any way - or worse, cancelling it - could be detrimental to their entire lineup.

But Killian doesn’t need to know that.

“No news is good news, right?” Emma lies easily.

He shrugs. “I can only suppose so.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied.

With the fate of _Sea of Chaos_ so uncertain, Emma begins her job search with renewed vigor shortly after the Nolans’ barbeque. She really does want to stay in Storybrooke. It’s the longest they’ve stayed in one place since Henry was born, and the mere thought of leaving this lazy, winter wonderland of a town brings tears to her eyes. This place is home. 

Luckily, there’s a small local TV station looking for someone to run their camera during the evenings and nights. It’s not ideal, but it brings in money and she can negotiate holidays off with Henry. She puts that as one of her requirements in her cover letter to the broadcasting group: she’s a single mother, her son relies on her in every way, and they’ll have to be understanding that sometimes he’ll get sick when they aren’t expecting it or he’ll need her to drop him off somewhere and cause her to run late.

She’s picking Henry up from school one afternoon when she gets the call - part-time video producer, working mostly evenings, but some nights. She gets some benefits and the rest of the staff understand the basics of her circumstances. They, too, have family emergencies pop up from time to time and the woman on the other side of the line, one Zelena Mills, says that she is a single mother herself. 

“We understand completely, Ms. Swan,” she says, “and we’ll do our best to accommodate if you do the same for us.”

Gladly, she accepts it. It’s freeing to have a safety net. She loves the Jones crew - will always love each and everyone of them - but the network didn’t pay for annual doctor’s visits or hospital visits for broken arms. It’s been a long time since Emma hasn’t had to worry about things like that. And even if Jefferson does get back to them with favorable news - looking more and more unlikely the colder the temperature gets - she can always tell Zelena sorry, but no. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?

The one thing she doesn’t plan on is Killian. Of course. Because when ever has he played right into her hand?

“I got a job,” Emma says when she’s on the phone with Killian one night. Henry’s spending the evening planning his perfect Halloween costume - he’s looking to go as Poe Dameron, but only if he can find a costume size to fit him. That’s left her to folding the laundry in the other room, her phone on speaker.

“So do I,” he chuckles, the slam of a cabinet covering his amusement. **“** You remember we work together, right?”

“I know,” she sighs, **“** but it’s getting to crunch time and I need to have some source of income.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, the only indication that he hasn’t hung up the beeping of a microwave in the background. Finally, he asks a bit too harshly to her liking, “You were applying to jobs?”

“Yeah,” she says quietly. **“** And I got one. At the TV station outside of town.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice deeper than normal. Usually, that means he’s next to her, behind her with his arms twined around her waist, his nose buried in her skin and mischief in his future. But now, on the phone, it’s kind of frightening.

“It didn’t seem important.” She puts down the shirt she’s folding and takes him off speaker. With the phone up to her ear, she asks, **“** Why does it sound like you’re getting frustrated? Or upset? I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“I thought you would’ve told me **,** ” he says curtly, his voice containing none of the warmth and kindness Emma is accustomed to.  **“** You can’t say we aren’t close, Swan. And I thought that you’d have a little more faith in us.” He pauses before adding, **“** In me.”

It catches her off guard. Finding another job wasn’t something she advertized - she had only told David, Mary Margaret, and Henry, but only because David was in the same boat and he couldn’t keep a secret from his wife if his life depended on it. It’s not like she hadn’t thought about telling Killian: it just hadn’t come up and she didn’t want to doubt his hope in what the network might say. “It’s just Jeff hasn’t gotten back to us and in my experience, that doesn’t bode well,” she explains gently. “And I wanted to be prepared. Just because I’m not going to be on the ship with you doesn’t mean I don’t have faith in you. **”** She swallows something back, a lump edging up her throat that threatens to overcome her. **“** I trust you, Killian. I thought you knew that.”

“Then why don’t your actions speak to that? **”** he counters sharply. And it’s not necessarily the worst barb she’s been stuck with in her life, but his tone certainly doesn’t soften the blow. “Aren’t you a woman of action, not words?” 

And that hurts, her own words thrown back in her face. Because, loathe though she is to admit it, he’s almost got a point.

Almost.

Killian scoffs. **“** Best of luck in your new endeavors, Swan. Tell Henry I say hello.”

“Why are you angry with me?” Emma asks, beginning to get hysterical if she trusts the quiver in her voice. “I told you before, I need to go where the money is. Thankfully, the money is just ten minutes outside of town.” There are tears threatening to roll down her cheeks and she isn’t quite exactly sure why. Why she’s getting emotional like this, why Killian’s turning on her. All she can think is how fortunate it is that Henry’s in the other room. “We’re still going to be down the street. We’re staying here, this is our home, Killian.” 

He doesn’t respond. Emma pulls back her phone and sees that the line is still open. He’s just sitting there, letting her stew in his silence. And that is the final straw. “Fine, be an ass. Don’t talk to me. Whatever. Have a good life.”

She hangs up, sensing like she should feel victorious in standing up to his asshole tendencies. Instead, she feels raw. And if she lingers in the laundry room far after she’s finished folding clothes, then there’s surely some other reason besides licking the wounds that Killian’s inflicted on her.

0000

Emma doesn’t talk to Killian for a while **.** Months, actually - her birthday passes with much more fanfare than the year before, but without a word from him. Liam answers Henry’s knock on Halloween, sending her a small, sad smile while her son digs through a bowl of candy. Thanksgiving passes with burnt fingers and happy bellies, but Emma comes home to a sadness no amount of pie or tryptophan can even come close to curing. She only hears of his wellbeing through infrequent texts from Liam. 

And it hurts, not just her. Henry begins to wonder why they all stop hanging out and Emma can’t even begin to explain what happened because she doesn’t _know_. He just got angry without rhyme or reason. Any way she looks at it, there really isn’t any logical reasoning behind his outburst.

So she calls in the big guns. 

“Sometimes, he just snaps,” Liam confides in her, the sounds of the harbor cluttering the phone line. “It happens on occasion. I believe…” he pauses, as if determining whether or not to share a particular anecdote with her. “Personally, I feel like it might be something to do with our father. He broke promise after promise and my little brother forgave each one of them until the day he never came back. **”**

It’s the one piece of the Jones brother puzzle she hadn’t been able to find herself. She’d had the inkling that Liam played a huge part of Killian’s life, the way their relationship went deeper than she assumed a normal fraternal relationship would go, and when the elder Jones tells her that, it all makes sense. Liam was Killian’s Henry - the only blood he’s got in the world, the one who’s been there since the beginning through thick and thin.

And then the realization that Killian thinks  _ she’s  _ leaving him hits. But she’s not, she argues, just changing direction a little bit. They’ll still live down the street, they’ll still be around, hell, they could still hang out every day. She knows what it’s like to be left and she isn’t going to do that to him.

**“** No matter what he says, Emma, Killian adores you,” Liam reassures her. **“** You and Henry. You’re as much as part of his life now as I am or the sea is.”

“I guess,” Emma sighs, crossing her arm over her stomach. She’s looking out her bedroom window, the tops of some of the boats and ships visible from across the way. It’s the beginning of December, the end of trawling season near. This has to to be one of the last time the _Roger_ and her ragtag crew will go out this year. She can just imagine Liam standing on the pier, everyone on the _Roger_ getting ready to cast off for another day out on the water. “I still think he’s overreacting.”

Liam scoffs. “Have you met my brother? Biggest drama queen I’ve ever met.”

That makes her laugh, lightens the mood even if only for a second. “If you could, I don’t know, put in a good word for me?” she asks. 

“I see how it is **,”** Liam groans **. “** Making the big brother the middle man. Sending me in to try and sweeten him up. **”**

(It’s not a lie, but Liam seems to understand what was going on from both sides of the argument. Besides, Killian would give anything or anybody a second chance if Liam asked.)

**“** I’ll talk to him, Emma **.** We’re taking some of the old crew and heading out in a moment.” She sighs, thankful that at least one of the Joneses has a head on their shoulders **.** “But whatever decision he makes, however inane, is his own.”

“Yeah, I know. **”** She hears a commotion downstairs and assumes Henry has finally come home from school **. “** Thanks, Liam. I’m glad you guys come as a pair. He’d be a giant pain if you didn’t calm him down.”

“He is a giant pain even when I do calm him down. **”** She laughs before the sounds of bellows and yells echo through the phone line **. “** Duty calls. Be good, Emma.”

“I’ll do my best **,”** she says. **“** Be safe. All of you.”

“Your concern is touching. **”** More shouts sound come from the background and it sounds as if Liam, muffling his phone, responds to them. Then he comes back on. **“** I’ll watch over him. He’ll get some sense knocked into that thick skull of his if it’s the last thing I do.”

0000

After tucking Henry into bed at David and Mary Margaret’s house, Emma resigns herself to another boring night shift where she expects nothing interesting to happen. In a town as small as Storybrooke, it’s not unusual to get through all of her assigned tasks – mostly leftover work from her shifts earlier in the week – and spend time reading about news around the rest of the world. Tonight, the top story is the weather: it’s raining, might turn into snow in the early morning hours. Storybrooke - such a riveting place to live.

She’s cutting together a segment about a high school unity concert – little snippets of kids greeting and taking ticket money at the front door, or their verbose and hilarious faces as they sing – to the voiceover of their teacher or principal or some administrator talking about how proud they are of their students. Honestly, it’s so small town, she lets her eyes go out of focus, only seeing flashes of color on the screen, as the woman’s soft voice from her earphones lulls her to drowsiness. 

Her peace is broken when the police scanner whoops to life. Ripping her earbuds, Emma focuses her attention. It’s the Coast Guard siren, the one only used when a man’s gone overboard.

Or worse.

The two other people on call tonight stand as well, already hustling about and grabbing their gear to head out to the scene. There’s information to find out – the who, what, when, etc. – and Coast Guards to interview for the morning’s news. But Emma stays seated: someone’s got to stay behind on the off chance that something else newsworthy happens at the same time. She’ll be the one to actually listen to the radio and recount it to her coworkers when they eventually call or text her asking where to go or what to ask.

“Be advised,” the discombobulated voice says. “We have reports of a crash on shore four miles due north of Georges Bank. Five bodies on board, five missing. Be advised.”

“Damn,” she mutters to herself, turning back to the rolls on her screen. “Hope they find the bastards.”

“Be advised.” And, for some reason, this time around makes her stomach sink. She’s lived here in Maine for over two years now. She’s heard that siren handfuls of times and never felt the sense of dread she’s experiencing now.

“Vessel confirmed as  _ Jolly Roger _ . All crew missing. Be advised.”

Feeling her eyes go wide and her jaw drop, Emma understands the emotion now. The  _ Jolly Roger _ – practically her second home. And the crew, all five of them, missing.

“No,” she mumbles to herself. “No, not him.”

She runs to the camera operator heading out to film the live spot. Grabbing his shoulder, Emma yanks him back. “You’ve got to let me film this one.”

“What?” her coworker asks, stunned. “No, Emma, you stay here, that’s how it alwa- ”

“I don’t care if that’s how it always is!” she shouts, gaining the attention of the few others in the office. Her breathing is intense and heavy, a pain stabbing deep throughout her body.  **“** I need to be out there. Please.”

Taken aback from the swiftness of her outburst, her wide-eyed coworker rolls his eyes and relents. “Fine,” he says, shrugging out of his rain slicker. “Any reason not to go out in this weather.”

“Thank you.” She takes equipment from him and follows reporter out to the truck. In her haste, she gets drenched from the storm while loading the van. It’s as she’s running back out, now donning her jacket and hood, that she whips out her phone. She’s in the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut and revving the engine, and dialing Mary Margaret’s cell.

Her friend barely answers the phone, obviously having been fast asleep, before Emma’s breathlessly explaining the situation.

“The  _ Jolly Roger _ went down. They don’t know where any of them are. I’m heading out there to film a spot right now.” She takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself down, and a sharp right down toward the Coast Guard’s station. **“** Mary Margaret, they’re out there,” she says quietly. The anchor filming the spot is too involved in calling sources and figuring out how much information he knows to pay attention to Emma’s conversation and verge of a breakdown. Still, she can’t be too sure. 

On the other end of the line, Mary Margaret calmly asks Emma how she can help. “Just, watch Henry for me. I’ll send you updates when I can. Try not to worry him too much. And call Jeff. He’ll want to know.” She sighs heavily, taking another turn far too fast. “Hopefully I’ll see you soon.”

Emma pulls into the gravel lot of the station shortly after hanging up with Mary Margaret, the anchor running up the slickened steps as Emma grabs the equipment.

By the time she gets inside, Whale, Scarlet, and Mulan have been found, pulled up into the rescue copter, and brought to the Coast Guard headquarters. They’re huddled up together in the corner, wrapped in blankets and soaking wet. Quickly, Emma sets up the tripod, the camera atop it while the reporter asks all the important questions of the lead officers, and then runs over to them. She hugs them all at once, careless as to her own state of dryness or lack thereof. 

“Are you guys okay?” she asks, holding herself back from kissing all three of them out of pure joy to see them alive. “What happened?”

“Don’t bloody well know, a’ite? **”** Scarlet grumps **. “** One moment, we enjoying ourselves, catching great, the next I’m swimming in the world’s coldest bath.”

At a loss for words, Emma just stares them over, maternal instincts kicking in. She’s observing them, looking for any bodily damage.

“Honestly, we’re gonna be fine.” Whale’s words stop her glances. **“** Minor bumps and bruises and cold, unless we’re stuck in these clothes much longer. Then we’re at risk for hypothermia and that’s never a nice way to go.”

Emma looks to Mulan, who she knows won’t sugar coat the actuality of the situation.

“I think Liam and Killian were fighting in the captain’s post,” she says. “The ship turned too sharply over a swell and...” Still wrapped in her towel, Mulan motions going overboard. She shivers and cuddles back with her blanket. “Any word on them?”

Emma shakes her head. “Not that I’ve heard.” The reporter calls her over, snapping at her. She rolls her eyes. “I suppose we’ll find out in a minute.”

“They gonna be okay, Emma,” Scarlet says, his entire countenance softening despite the tenseness of the situation. “Them Joneses are survivors.”

Nodding, she hurries over to her set up, flicks the camera to rolling, and points toward the anchor, telling him to get on with it. She kind of zones out until a name -  _ his  _ name - crosses his lips.

“Captain Killian Jones and his brother, Captain Liam Jones, still remain unfound. Coast Guard air rescue is looking, but with each passing moment, their chances of survival shrink.”

She covers her mouth, doing her best to stay professional. Emma has to choke back a sob because her coworker is _right._ The longer it takes for the Coast Guard to find them – _if_ they find them – the worse of her Jones boys will be. It’s cold and wet on land: she can only imagine how bad it is _in_ the water.

After they’ve finished the spot, the reporter makes one more round in the station, gathering all the pertinent information and contact numbers, before coming up to Emma as she makes sure for a fourth time that what’s left of the crew of the _Jolly Roger_ is okay. “You ready to head back and edit this bitch?”

A slight glance toward the door and the bustle of station, everyone trying to save those men, has Emma crossing her arms and looking at her coworker. She jerks her head toward her friends, still huddling on the bench, warming up but waiting for news. “No, I’m going to stay here.”

“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug. “If a new lead comes in, call me and I’ll come back down.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says, her attention turning back to the crew members of _Jolly Roger_ in their vigil. 

The night goes fast and slow. For the most part, the four of them are quiet, getting lost in their own thoughts **.** It’s close to one in the morning when Emma hears the garble of the radio again. It interrupts a memory she’d been reliving - a movie night with Henry, Liam, and Killian, in the middle of last winter - and wakes her up for a little bit as she strains to hear the message. She catches only a few words – two, medevac, unknown – but it’s enough to spark the flame of hope in her heart.

“They found them,” she whispers, elbowing Mulan next to her. “They found them.”

“How do you know?” she asks groggily. 

“They said it on the radio. They were both medevaced to Storybrooke General.” Emma stands abruptly.  “I’ve got to go.”

“Where you going, Emma?” Whale asks.

“The hospital.” She runs a hand through her hair, getting it caught in a knot at the tips. **“** I need to know they’re okay. Do any of you have your phones?” They shake their heads and Emma nods. “Okay, I’ll call Ruby and tell her to get down here and I’ll keep her updated.” She nods again, more to clear her head than anything, and she gives each one of them a hug **. “** Get warm **,”** Emma says by way of goodbye **.**

Texting Ruby as she walks out the door, Emma gets confirmation that her friend will be there soon. She’ll get to take care of Whale, which both parties will enjoy, and Mulan and Scarlet can derive some sort of joy from ragging on them. Once she rushes out of the Coast Guard post, she realizes she’s stranded. Her coworker took the channel van back to the office. Luckily the hospital isn’t that far away, so she runs. It’s still raining and it’s as she runs around a corner through an alley that she gets a flashback to being drunk and running down her street. Running through puddles to get to Killian, that night where she force her way into his house and he forced himself into a Killian-shaped hole in her heart for good. 

The idea of never being able to do that again spurns her legs to go faster **.**

Along the way, she calls Mary Margaret again, updating her as promised.

“Please tell me it’s good news,” her friend greets her **.**

“They found them,” she gasps out, the hospital coming into sight. She doesn’t slow down though, still jogs until she reaches the end of the entrance canopy **. “** Coast Guard found Killian and Liam. I’m at the hospital right now to see them. I’ll text you when I get some more info.”

Mary Margaret doesn’t even say goodbye, just says, “Okay” and hangs up.

Emma gets to the hospital’s front desk, huffing and puffing and says to the nurse behind it, “Coast Guard just brought in two men **.”** Emma bends over the desk, her palms flat on the surface as she struggles to catch her breath **. “** Medevac,” she manages to get out. She takes another couple of deep breaths before she can form another actual sentence. **“** I need to know their condition.”

But the nurse behind the desk shakes her head and returns her gaze to the computer screen **.** “I can’t tell you that, ma’am.”

“What? Why not?”

The woman sighs and rolls her eyes. “Ma’am, I can’t release that information to someone who isn’t family.”

“I am,” Emma insists, jabbing her finger into her chest and then toward the elevators **. “** They are. They’re my family.”

“I know you might really want to know, ma’am, but I must insist. I’m not allowed-”

“I don’t care!” she shouts. As it was in the newsroom earlier that evening, all eyes turn to her. Emma feels her cheeks heat up in embarrassment and frustration. Again, she points toward the elevator **.** “Those two men are the closest thing to family I’ve got besides my son and I will not lose them!”

The nurse is startled and starts to stutter through a response. “Ma’am, I-”

Emma groans and leans forward on the desk. “Is there someone else I can speak with? I’ll tell you whatever you want. Go ahead, try me.” She tries to calm herself, settle herself down by stating facts. **“** My name’s Emma Swan, I’m looking for Liam and Killian Jones.”

“Jones?” Another woman comes out from behind a partition, probably separating the front room from the break room. She looks vaguely familiar and Emma realizes why when she speaks again **.** “I treated Liam when he was in here a couple months ago **.** ” Her eyes narrow as if she’s trying to see past the rat’s nest of hair and drenched clothing hanging off Emma and then she nods **. “** His brother put you down as a secondary contact.”

Emma sighs in relief. “Thank you **,** ” she says, her voice breaking. 

(Later, when the dust has settled, she’ll think back to what the nurse’s words actually meant. That, had anything gone wrong that first time, Killian wanted her to be in charge in case they couldn’t get through to him.)

Stepping closer to the desk, the edge digging into her hips, Emma pleads with the nurse.  **“** You know me, I’m sorry I forgot your name, but please, can you tell me anything about either of them?”

This new nurse looks at the first nurse, then ushers Emma over to entrance of the desk. She leans over the partition **.** “I can tell you they’re both here, but it’s really rough right now,” she whispers in her ear.

“What’s wrong?” Emma catches the hint of hesitation in her eyes and she has to hold back another groan of despair. “Look, I don’t want the bullshit. Just tell me.”

The nurse sighs and starts typing away at another computer nearby. “They’re taking Killian into surgery now. The rope was wrapped around his wrist too tightly for too long **.** ” Then she looks directly at Emma **. “** They’re going to amputate his left hand.”

Her hand goes to cover her mouth in shock **.** “Oh my god.”

Squinting at the screen, the nurse explains **,** “He’s a bit touch and go right now. He hasn’t really been lucid, but he’s breathing on his own for now.”

“That’s good, right?” Emma clarifies. “That he’s breathing on his own?” The nurse nods and a small weight lifts off her shoulders. He’s fine, for now. He’s a survivor. Both of them are. “And Liam? **”** she asks **. “** What about Liam?”

When the nurse looks away from the computer screen, it feels like a boulder takes up residence in her stomach. The pause that follows makes it even heavier. “I’m sorry, Ms. Swan, but as for Liam…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, but then again, she doesn’t really need to.

Emma shakes her head in disbelief. She can’t imagine a world without Liam in it, his silly stories and teasing. And while it’s going to be really tough for her to fully comprehend, it in no way would compare to the train of thought she’s on when she asks her next question: “Does Killian know?”

The nurse says no. It makes sense, with Killian being in and out and hardly conscious, but it still hurts **.** Emma silently starts to break down, the remnants of her run - gasping breaths and rivulets of sweat - turning into sobs and streams of tears. Offering her condolences for Liam’s death, the nurse comes from around the desk and leads her to a chair in the waiting room. For a moment, the nurse wraps her arm around Emma’s shoulders and just holds her, a weak attempt to glue her together as she falls apart.

After a few minutes, she gets up and gets back to work. “I’ll let you know when Killian gets out of surgery,” she assures her. 

A wobbly “thank you” comes out of Emma’s mouth as the nurse leaves. A moment later, she crumples up on a chair and cries. She brings her knees to her chin, the heels of her sneakers perching on the edge of the chair. The sobs reverberate off the waiting room’s walls and Emma’s reminded how lonely being sad can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to sotheylived, shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, and captainswanbigbang. You know what you did.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I broke the rules, but aren't rules meant to be broken on occasion?  
> Four million thanks to captainswanbigbang, sotheylived, shipsxahoy, and queen-icicle-fandom for supporting and even encouraging the feels in these last couple of chapters.  
> Now have some more angst.

Emma Swan has endured some long nights in her life. The cold ones where her shivers were the only way to keep her warm at night. The empty ones where she sat awake, eyes wide and stomach growling. The lonely ones where the closest thing to human interaction – to a  _ friend _ – was the car that served as her bed. Even the single night she sat in a jail cell, ankle cuffed to a bed while contractions wracked her body.

Those were nothing compared to this one.

Not only is Killian lying in a bed, lifeless and pale, so far away from the vibrant, innuendo-ready man that he is normally, but Liam is  _ gone. _

And his little brother – the light of his world, the only blood to ever care for him – doesn’t know.

The tears roll down Emma’s cheeks almost nonstop.

The nurses work around her, like she’s another machine working to keep Killian alive at the side of his bed. And, in a way, she thinks, she is. Without Liam, he needs a reason to fight, to come back. 

To fight and come back to her. 

When she first came into his hospital room, about four hours after initially arriving, it was jarring. Killian was breathing on his own, thank god, but the sheer number of wires and tubes leaking into his body was breathtaking. And his arm: his left arm stopped short of his wrist.

“Be careful of his left side,” the nurse advised her. “It got the brunt of the wreck. It’s going to be tender for a while.”

Emma nodded wordlessly, the image before her choking back any sort of verbal response. 

“He’s going to be fine, Ms. Swan,” the nurse said quietly. “He’s a fighter, but he probably won’t wake up for 12 hours at the least. He can hear you, though.” Gently, she pressed Emma into the room. “Talk to him. It’ll help his progress.”

A scratchy “thank you” was all Emma could say. The nurse nodded and headed back to the nurses’ station, leaving her all alone with her hurting, healing pirate.

The nurse was the first of many to tell her to talk to Killian. They said so every time they came in to check his vitals, but it feels wrong. She wouldn’t be talking to him – talking to him involved banter, a back-and-forth, god even his incessant flirting. No, she’d be talking at him. 

So she does the next best thing: she scales her own walls to cross over his while they are down. Her hand slips into his where it’s lying on the bed. It’s cold and there’s an IV in the way. But she doesn’t let go. Not even to itch her nose. Her hand stays in his because it is the one reassurance she can give him.

During the night, when she finds herself uncomfortable or her back aching, all she does is glances up at Killian’s face. It’s peaceful, laugh lines evident and eyes flitting behind the lids. If not for the slight bruises forming and marks on his cheeks, she could be sitting next to him on his bed, waiting for him to wake up and partake in round two of three of mind-blowing sex. Maybe she’d even been able to persuade Killian into torturing Liam with theatricalities through the thin bedroom walls.

Then she remembers the news that’s waiting to be told when he awakes and Emma reevaluates her circumstances. 

At some point, she miraculously falls unconscious, her head pillowed on her elbow resting on the bed. She doesn’t hear the nurses come in periodically or the hum of the machines. The only reason she knows she ever fell asleep is the sensation of pressure squeezing her hand.

Slowly uncurling from her hunched position, Emma squints. The sun peeks through the blinds, far brighter than it should be. There’s a kink in her neck and her back and – well, she’s going to pay for her sleeping arrangements all day.

But then the pressure grabs her attention again. Looking down at her hand, she begins to piece together the meaning. Her eyes follow the lines of his body – from his wrist, up his arm, across the scratches that marred his face to the hazy blue of his eyes.

Killian’s awake, and the first thing he sees is her, puffy eyes, rat's nest hair, and all.

She doesn’t think she’s ever been this happy and sad in her life.

“Swan, darling,” he says, his voice scratchy and low. “What are you doing here?”

Ten minutes ago, Emma would’ve said she was fine. She’s been through hell and worse in her eyes. But the moment Killian asks his question, the tears start anew. Without saying anything, he can read Liam’s death in her eyes and he shakes his head minutely. He squeezes his hand and hers by default.

“No.” It’s desperate, but not begging. He sighs in distress, turning so his eyes stare up at the ceiling instead of at her.  “I was with him,” he says quietly, eyes closing. “The storm was too much and he was getting cold, so he and I hung on to each other to keep warm.”

Biting her lip is the best she can do to keep from breaking. The pain and threat of blood centers her, lets her focus on Killian’s pain. That’s what matters most right now: he’s lost everything.

“We’re survivors, Emma, Liam and I. We get through anything together.”

But that rips her heart to pieces, and the waterworks begin in earnest. “Coast Guard picked you both up at the same time,” she tells him, trying to keep her sobs to a minimum to get the information out. “They had the hardest time prying you two apart, but once they figured out…”

She needs to get the words out. They both know that. Killian will not be able to start grieving properly until he knows without a shadow of a doubt. Emma takes a deep breathe before quietly, solemnly saying, “He’s gone, Killian. Liam died honorably.”

“What?” Killian spits out. “In a crash? In a storm? He survived that, Swan. To be killed as he’d already been beat isn’t honorable.”

Emma shakes her head and squeezes his hand. The motion brings his attention back to her, his eyes shooting to hers. “He died protecting his baby brother, Killian,” she whispers. “He died so that you could live.”

Killian corrects her immediately, a pavlovian response  – “Younger brother.” – and she watches his eyes widen as he realizes that never again will his elder brother tease him.

And that’s when he breaks.

0000

Having had the misfortune of being around Killian when he’s tired, hungry, angry, and just about every other negative emotion on the spectrum, she has an idea of what to expect with grieving Killian.

It’s completely wrong. While she suspected he would rage, he doesn’t: he just sits silently more often than not. He’ll greet her when she comes to visit, engage in small talk because he’s gentleman enough to not leave her hanging, but that’s really it. He doesn’t laugh at her bad jokes. He doesn’t crack a smile. He just...doesn’t.

The only time he seems remotely happier is when she brings Henry along on her visits. It’s like her son can understand where Killian is mentally. They discuss the weather and the basics of Henry’s schooling, but then Jones will fall silent. So Henry fills the air with stories – he brings in the story he has to read for class or the anthology of fairy tales he loves and reads them aloud. Emma can see the tension slowly ease out of Killian’s rigid positioning while her son’s young voice bounces off the walls.

It all comes back, though, when a nurse walks in, or she sneezes, whenever the magic of the moment is broken. And it breaks her.

She knows that he’s strong – hell, he fought back death for a couple more decades at least in his weakened state – and she knows that he’ll recover both physically and mentally eventually, but his emotional state has her worried.

He needs to talk about it, to someone. If not her, than David or one of his crew boys. A therapist even, though she knows he won’t approach or even contemplate that method of healing.

So for now, Emma brings Henry along with her as much as she can. Because at least when her son’s around, Killian seems almost like his old self.

And she knows that their time together is helping Henry heal, too. Emma insisted on being the one to tell him, coming home from the hospital to shower once Killian was stable enough. Belle had taken the seat by his bed, had decided to talk to him because, as it turns out, she and Liam  _ were _ together. They were supposed to go camping that weekend, and they were going to tell everyone officially once they returned. They were going to pick out a Christmas tree for Belle’s apartment, have the holiday dinner together. He was going to meet her father.

But some stories get cut short.

(It’ll do her good, Emma reasons. She gets to tell Killian about a different side of his brother. It’ll help both of them cope somewhat healthily. Hopefully.)

Henry’s still in his pajamas, staying home from school at her request under David’s eye. When she goes to pick him up, ragged and tired beyond belief, he immediately rises from the couch and hugs her. He has no idea what’s wrong, but he can tell she’s in pain. Her baby boy knows that, right now, she needs to be sure that he’s okay, just like he needed to make sure he was okay when the storm nearly mowed the  _ Roger _ over.

The favor is returned mere minutes later, after Emma explains the whole ordeal and he’s sobbing into her shoulder on the couch. He’s lost one of his best friends, if the Jones’ spot on their Christmas list was any indication, and she’s sure it hurts more than anything he’s ever experienced. Liam was nothing if not an older brother to all three of them - knocking Killian into shape for the majority of his life, teasing Emma at every opportunity, and entertaining Henry when no one else had the patience or wherewithal to do so. Together, they’re a little quartet that’s lost their leader.

And they’ll get through it, eventually.

Together.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? Would you like feelings instead of frights this Halloween evening? I can oblige.  
> No one else is dying in this story. It's the aftermath of the deaths and other stuff that have occurred thus far. I'm not that cruel.   
> As always, many thanks to sotheylived, shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, and captainswanbigbang for all the help and guidance and everything that you've all given me in your special ways. :)

The day Killian is discharged, Emma’s there **,** just as she’s tried to be since the wreck two weeks before. She’s there so often, she ended up calling Zelena and asking for an indefinite leave of absence. It’s not that she couldn’t try and balance the job, Henry, and Killian, but she’d rather devote time to the more important of those matters. And now she understands that, though it might be a difficult habit to break, asking for help from the community is a huge advantage. 

(It doesn’t hurt that both she and Killian are staples in Storybrooke. People she doesn’t even know have stopped her in the grocery store or called her to see what they can do to help him out and it’s heartwarming.)

Killian can’t drive, not that he drove much before, but someone’s got to be there to take him home. Henry’s hanging out with the Nolans, helping make at least a week and a half’s worth of meals for his freezer.

(Because that’s what you do in a small town, apparently. Just the night before, Mary Margaret had called her to ask which she’d think Killian would like better, cookies or brownies.)

(She said both, because there was some stupidly sappy place in her mind that said for someone in his condition who’s as sweet as he is, Killian deserves both.)

She and Killian stand at the front nurse’s desk, a cool breeze coming in from the automatic sliding doors behind them and stray snowflakes following.

The nurse reads something off of his file and then looks up at him without a hint of empathy. “You’re going to be on your own, correct?” she asks.

“Aye.” The answer sounds so sad and un-Killian. Emma hears him take a deep breath before he adds, “Just me nowadays.”

With a curt nod, the nurse begins to give him directions, telling him to set alarms to take medications at this time and schedule check ups on that day. Standing beside him, Emma pays attention almost as attentively as she did when Henry got sick for the first time ever.

(He thinks he’s going to be alone for the foreseeable future, but if there’s one thing Emma Swan is, it’s stubborn, and she cares about this man too much for him to believe that he’s the only person he can rely on in this world especially at Christmastime. Not anymore. Not on her watch.)

Handing over a thick pile of forms and instructions, the nurse finishes off her spiel with another nod. Killian quietly thanks her and turns to the exit. Emma follows, digging her keys from out of her bag.

Killian’s still somber, even in the way he walks. Instead of his usual too-proud swagger, his shoulders slump forward and forge the path toward her Bug, parked under the covered entryway. Killian gets in, shoving himself carefully into the passenger’s seat while Emma goes around the front to get in the driver’s side. 

He stays silent for the short ride, only picking at the already unraveling bandage on his left wrist and staring at the snow fall. Emma glances at him every once in awhile, just to make sure he’s still there and hasn’t sunk into the old leather of her car. 

When she pulls up to the curb outside of the his house, Emma flips the engine off and sits there for a minute, just staring at Killian. She knows she shouldn’t - when people did that to her when she was in bad shape, it just made her angrier - but she really is worried about him. After about a minute or so, she yanks the driver’s door open. Killian does the same, opening the door before reaching behind him to grab his duffel. However, she’s already popped her seat forward and is reaching for it herself. 

“I can do it, Swan!” he snaps bitterly.

With a sigh, Emma growls, “I know you can, Jones. I’m just trying to be nice.”

“I’m not an invalid **,** ” he continues. “I only lost one hand. The other one is fully functioning.” Tugging his bag free of the backseat, he storms off with his shit and goes into the house. 

Emma sighs heavily, letting the stress in her shoulders roll over her body. Slamming the driver’s door shut, she removes her phone from her back pocket and calls Henry. 

“Hold on a second, I have to wash my hands,” her son says by way of greeting. She hears the other end of the line clatter on a counter, the rush of water from a spigot, and then Henry asks, “What’s up, Mom?”

“Before you and David bring the food to Killian, can you run back home and grab my clothes from the top of the dryer? Put them in a bag.” She hesitates before adding, “And bring something Christmassy. Lights, bring some lights.”

Muted voices float through the connection. Henry must be asking David to stop next door before leaving **.** “Yeah, we can do that,” he answers **. “** But why?”

Sighing again, Emma juts her hip out and leans against the Bug **.** “Killian shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“So you’re going to stay with him? **”** She nods and makes an affirmative noise **. “** Can I come?” he asks **.**

“Umm **.”** Normally, she’d be fine with it. Henry is a great help and distraction for Killian. But with the way he’d snapped at her just now, the mothering instinct in her wants to protect her son from that **. “** Maybe tomorrow night,” she suggests **. “** We don’t want to overwhelm him.”

She can practically hear him roll his eyes **.** “Fine.”

“Don’t use that tone with me.”

“Alright **,”** he grumbles. In the background, a timer goes off. David’s deep voice says something indistinctly while Henry laughs **.** “We’ll be over in like a half an hour.”

“Okay. Are you behaving for David?”

“Yes, Mom,” he sighs. **“** Anything else?”

“No **.”** Despite the somewhat sour mood she’s recently sunk into, Emma smiles. **“** Thanks for being such a good kid.”

“I do my best **,** ” Henry replies **.**

Hanging up **,** she takes a deep breath and mounts the stairs up to the Jones’ front door. It’s still slightly ajar, as if Killian threw it back but it didn’t catch in the jamb. Emma gently pushes it open and walks in.

There’s crashing in the general direction of the kitchen and she follows the sound quickly. She finds Killian rummaging through the cabinets, almost all of them open and the dishwasher gapping and half empty.

“I don’t need your help, Swan,” he grumbles even though she hasn’t murmured a word.

“I know you don’t,” she relents. Standing in the kitchen entryway, Emma watches as he goes back and forth between the dishwasher, one cup or a bowl in his hand, and the cabinets. It explains why the doors are all open, but the bowls are where the plates are meant to be and there’s a spatula in with the mugs. 

When he realizes his mistake, Killian throws the plate he’s holding down on the linoleum. It shatters, thankfully into larger pieces, and he practically dives for it headfirst. 

**“** Killian, stop,” Emma reprimands, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him up. **“** Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I can’t stop, Emma!” His face is that of a broken man, in all the ways one might think. His eyes are bloodshot, his five o’clock shadow is well past midnight, and there’s something crazed about the set of his mouth **.** “If I stop, then it comes back. I need to distract myself because if I don’t, Liam haunts me and I can’t.” He runs a hand through his hair frantically, pacing the kitchen and whirling back toward her when he finds his words. **“** It’s my fault. He was trying to talk to me about you, told me to get my head straight and apologize, and my temper got the better of me because I _knew_ I was being unreasonable and I jerked the wheel **,** ” he says. “We all went overboard because of me and Liam died because of that.” 

Frozen in the middle of the kitchen, broken plate at his feet, Killian stares blankly over her shoulder. And then he breaks **,** tears streaming down his cheeks, his voice cracking. “I can’t, Emma. I’m sorry for all of it **.** ”

Without a word, Emma approaches and embraces him, holds him in the middle of the kitchen and she feels even more assured of the favor she asked Henry. He buries his face into her shoulder, his arms squeezing her tightly, as if she’s the only thing he’s sure about right now.

“I know, Killian,” she mutters, stroking his hair. **“** It’s okay to can’t right now.” She pulls back a little bit and takes his chin her hand, forcing him look at her. The blue in his eyes is the saddest hue she’s ever seen, like the cloudless sky in the middle of a drought. “But you will. Liam loved you, no matter what. You know that **.”**

(If she were braver, she’d tell him she loves him too. Perhaps not as much as his brother, but very nearly.)

She gives him a little smile, her hand coming around to to cup his cheek **. “** He would want you to move on eventually. He’ll always be watching over you now and you know the last thing he wants to see is for you to be miserable.”

Killian sniffs, wiping the remains of salt and sadness off his cheeks. His blunted arms comes up - he seems intent to keep a hold on her waist - but once more he realizes there’s nothing there to help him, and he reluctantly switches arms **.**

“Are you sure?” he asks softly. She nods. “‘Cause sometimes he was an insufferable arse.”

Emma chuckles. “I’m well aware,” she answers just as gently **. “** Sometimes you can be too.”

He snickers, the light in his eyes confirming that her jests and jokes are a different way of accepting his apology. “That’s right, Swan, knock a man while he’s down.”

“My specialty.” She lightly slaps him on the cheek. “I feel like it’s only fair, considering the circumstances.”

Sighing, Killian’s shoulders slump forward. “I am sorry about before,” he apologizes quietly. “It was unnecessary and rude. I just…” He licks his lips. “I didn’t want to think about the  _ Jolly Roger  _ crew without you in it.”

“I should’ve told you I was looking for jobs,” Emma replies. “It wasn’t a matter of not trusting you. You seemed so hopeful that the show would keep going. I didn’t want to ruin that.”

A watery chuckle comes from his mouth and pulls her tighter to him. “Why must you always be so thoughtful, love?” He kisses her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. But it doesn’t excuse you for being a dick.”

Confident that he’s alright for now, Emma lets him go. She picks up the few chunks of plate from the ground, throws them in the trash, and starts unloading the dishwasher. In his own time, Killian joins her. He stands guard next to the open dishwasher and hands her a dish at a time, which she places in its proper home. 

It’s in these small moments of silence that Emma hazards to inform him of her plan **.** “Um, so I was thinking I stay here for a couple of nights **,** ” she says, turning around to grab another mug. At his look, she shrugs **. “** Or at least tonight.”

“Why? What about your lad?”

“Henry’s going to stay with the David and Mary Margaret.”

Killian hums, leaning up against the counter. “It sounds a lot like you’ve invited yourself into my home.”

Emma cocks an eyebrow. “Hasn’t that been your end game for a while? **”** He shrugs without feeling, eyes looking everywhere but at her **. “** No one should be alone, Killian, especially at a time like this. I of all people know and understand that **.”** He still doesn’t say anything. Emma takes a step back toward the front door **. “** I’ll leave if you want to be alone.”

A moment of quiet settles around them while he contemplates her proposition. She keeps putting dishes away on her own. He comes up next to her and places his hand on her shoulder and drags it down to her hand. He curls his fingers over hers. 

“I’d love it if you stayed, **”** he murmurs, giving her hand a squeeze **. “** I need someone to make sure there aren’t any monsters beneath the bed.”

Emma laughs. “I knew it. I knew you had to have a flaw **.** ” The dishes put away and the washer closed, she surveys the kitchen. It’s immaculate - the Jones brothers wouldn’t have it any other way - leaving her at a loss of what to do next **. “** Are you hungry? **”** she asks **. “** Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

“Swan **.”** Eyes wide, she turns around to find Killian staring at her, a smile perking up the corners of his mouth **. “** I can feed myself.”

Shaking her head, Emma giggles to herself. “Sorry, mom habit.”

“How about I make you something?” he offers instead, pushing off the counter to search the cupboards **.**

“Killian, you don’t have to.”

“No **,”** he insists **. “** You’ve been looking after me for far longer than I want to know and I repay you by being insufferable, as you so delicately pointed out.” He takes hold of her hand in his and squeezes it.  “Let me treat you well.” He looks in fridge, then the pantry. “Well, we’ve got a wide variety of options. Do you want pasta or frozen pizza?”

Emma chooses which one she thinks will be easiest with his one hand. “Pizza sounds great,” she says, settling into his former spot against the counter as he turns the oven on. “I wouldn’t worry too much about the food. I have it on good authority that you’ll have plenty of it in a little bit.”

Almost as if they’ve been summoned, the doorbell rings. Both Killian’s eyebrows raise in confusion. Emma nods toward the door with a grin. “Well, go answer it. Aren’t you a gentleman?”

Cautiously, Killian goes and answers the door, allowing Henry, David, and Mary Margaret in, the latter two weighed down with disposable pans and her son tangled up in twinkle lights and a Santa hat.

“What’s all this?” he asks, following them into the kitchen. Mary Margaret takes charge, directing her husband where to put the pans while she loads them into the freezer **.**

“We made you food!” Henry declares. “And Christmas cheer!”

Still dressed in her work clothes and running out of room in the freezer, Mary Margaret opens the fridge to see it empty. “Because we knew this was most likely the case.”

David leaves for a second to drop a duffel bag in the entry hall before returning. “Em, your bag is in the hall.”

Emma thanks him and glances at Killian, who seems completely surprised by the turn of events. He looks to Henry, still smiling proudly as he supervises the adults try and fit all the food into storage.

“You know I’ve got some lights of my own, right, lad?” he inquires **.**

“Yeah, but Mom didn’t know where they were.” Henry finds an outlet and powers up the lights, letting them shine brightly in a ball on the counter. He comes up to Killian and beckons him to bend down. Once he does, Henry places the Santa on his head. **“** Mom said I could sleep over tomorrow night. Is that okay?”

Killian looks at Emma, who shrugs. “Didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

He sends her a small grin before directing his focus toward her son **.** “Henry, I would be honored if you slept over tomorrow night.”

Throwing his hands up in the arm, Henry shouts, “Awesome! We can watch movies all night and then we can go find a tree after breakfast!”

For the first time since being cleared for discharge, Killian’s laugh is genuine and might even portray a hint of excitement. “It sounds like a plan, Henry.”

0000

He puts on a good face, but Emma can read him like a book. As she expected **,** he’s having a tough time adjusting to the loss of his hand. She’ll watch him in the kitchen from her perch on his couch: reaching for a box of cereal with his left hand only to remember that there isn’t anything at the end to grab the box. He’ll stop mid-action, frown at his stump, and shake his head as the one arm raises and the other lowers. He’ll grab for the remote to change from whatever claymation Christmas special she’s got on to watch Discovery Channel and knock it off the coffee table instead.

At least three times a day, Killian will do something along those lines. He’ll get frustrated and annoyed at himself and run off to his bedroom in a huff. When Henry’s over, he and Emma wait awhile and nose-goes to see who will talk to him this time. When it’s her alone, the task falls to her.

(She says it’s for his own good, Killian really shouldn’t be alone right now, but there’s a bit of selfishness in her actions as well. She’s gotten used to being around him that when they’re not together something is...off.)

He’s usually sulking on the bed, curled up on his side and facing the wall. His bedroom window looks over the water, hundreds of yards away, now a traumatic reminder of what took his brother instead of the calming balm it once was. More often than not, the TV is on, an attempt and failure to provide distraction. She’d tried talking to him the first couple of times, but when she received no response, she fell back on to her trusted ways: actions over words. 

Hesitantly, she crawls on the other side of the bed and curls up behind him, spooning him with an arm over his waist. She buries her face in his shirt between his shoulder blades and just lies there, letting the warmth of her breath against his back speak the volumes of words she can’t verbalize.

_ You’re not alone. I’m here. It’ll be okay in time. _

(It all reeks of love, and while Emma most definitely can’t say that, she certainly feels it toward this man, no matter how broken he might think he is.)

It’s when he starts to lay his arm atop hers, his fingers twisting together with hers, that she really starts to believe in her own words. That day, he flips around to face her on the bed and it’s just as momentous, as it is wrought with emotions.

“What are you doing, Swan?” he asks.

She shrugs, looking at their hands between them instead of his eyes. “Procrastinating wrapping presents,” she responds.

That gets a deprecating chuckle out of him. “Don’t you have a job to attend to? A son?”

“Henry’s at school during the day and I…” She hesitates in telling him that she  _ technically  _ quit her job to watch over him. He’ll react poorly, go on about how he doesn’t need a nurse, and this is the first time they’ve actually talked during his episodes. She settles on, “I don’t have to worry about work right now. I’m focused on taking care of you.”

Killian’s head falls forward, pressing his forehead against hers. “Emma, love, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: I can take care of myself,” he mutters.

“I know, but you don’t have to,” she whispers back, brushing the tip of her nose against his. “Try something new: it’s called trust.” He chuckles once at his own words parroted back. “Trust me, Killian. You’re my person, Killian. For everything. And if I have to guess, it’s true the other way around too.”

Laughing outright, he pokes at her side. “Who’s sounding a little self-obsessed now?” Pulling her closer to his body, Killian rolls onto his back and Emma’s head comes to rest on his chest. For a moment, they lay in silence, Emma listening to his heartbeat and steady breathing. “Did they fire you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” she sighs, relaxing against him. “I was spending more time in your hospital room than at my desk, so I took a leave of absence.” He’s so warm and comfortable that her eyes start to droop. “Even when I was at work, I was worrying about you.”

She must be more exhausted than she thought she was. Her eyelids are much heavier than they were two minutes ago. Her fingers scratch against his chest beneath his shirt and he presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you, Emma,” he murmurs. “For everything.”

(It’s what people do when they’re in love _ , _ she thinks.)

“It’s what I’m here for,” she says.


	22. Chapter 22

For a second year in a row, Christmas is celebrated with Killian. It’s bittersweet, of course, this being the first Christmas in his life without his big brother, but Emma likes to think she and Henry are doing their best to fill Liam’s shoes. Henry is thrilled that Killian decides to spend Christmas Eve with them at their house, jumping on Killian instead of Emma in the excitement of Christmas morning. 

Christmas dinner is a surprisingly lively affair. David and Mary Margaret join them, as well as Belle and her father. There’s laughter and tears, heartfelt toasts and frequent disruptions for bad jokes. When she crawls in her bed and Killian slides his arm around her waist that night, he whispers, “thank you” in her ear, so she must have done something right.

A few days before New Year’s, Robin invites the three of them to meet baby Roxana. The pictures he’s sent both of them prove that she’s cute as a button, but they’ve yet to meet this new addition in person with all that’s been going on in the last couple of months. Emma knows that there’s a lot of frustration, annoyance, and fatigue behind every one of them. A new baby is a far stretched from a walk in the park. She can only imagine how hard it is to balance a newborn with Roland the exuberant child that he is and without Robin currently being employed.

They’re all unemployed, technically. With no trawlers to their name and the crew members who would take over as captain still on the mend, the Jones brothers’ trawling company has come to a sudden halt. They’ll still have whatever money comes from the show, but the future is just a little more uncertain.

But in the meantime, Henry is having a ball playing a new board game with Roland and Regina while Emma, Killian, and Robin crowd around the sleeping baby, curled up in Emma’s arms.

“I always forget how small new babies are,” she murmurs, leaning down to slyly smell Roxana’s head. She remembers the first couple of months after Henry was born. He always had the scent of cleanliness and newness, something she clung to on the nights they were sleeping in her car.

“I’ve got to give it to you, mate,” Killian says, relaxing into the couch, his stunted arm casually slung over the couch behind her. “You two make some cute kids.”

“Cute and loud,” Robin says with a sigh. “Regina wanted you to come over just so she could spend some time with Roland, maybe convince him into taking a nap with her.”

“Oh,” Emma says, looking up and across the room to where Robin stood. “If you had told me that, I would’ve left Henry at Granny’s. He could’ve come and visited another day.”

But Robin’s already shaking his head. “No, Roland’s been cooped up in here with us for a couple of days,” he tells her. “We’ve been too tired to take him anywhere. It’s good for him to have someone to play with that isn’t us.”

That gets laughter out of all of them, softer from Emma so as not to wake the baby. From the other room, Roland starts calling for his father, asking him to come and be on his team for the next game. Robin sighs.

“Go ahead,” Emma encourages him with a smile. “She’s sleeping. Go tell Roland how good of an older brother he’s being.”

With a nod, Robin takes his leave. Emma watches him leave before turning back to the sleeping child, running her fingers slowly up and down her stomach. Roxana inhales deeply, her stomach expanding with the action, and sighs happily. 

Glancing over to her side, she sees Killian staring down at the baby, a sweet expression on his face. 

“Do you want to hold her?” she asks. His eyes go wide and he vehemently shakes his head. Tilting her head in confusion, Emma adds, “Why?”

Behind her, he holds up his handless arm. “I can’t,” he says simply. “I’d be afraid to drop her.”

Emma scoffs. “Please. You have arms and she’s surprisingly resilient.” His teeth bite into his lower lips, a show of nerves at a level she doesn’t think she’s ever seen on him. And then a thought occurs to her. “Killian, have you ever held a baby?”

He shakes his head, embarrassed. “Haven’t really been around them this young,” he says. “Roland was already walking when I met him for the first time.”

Rolling her eyes, she uses the hand not holding Roxana to position his arms in front of him, making a cradle. “All you really need to do is support her head,” she explains. “Just make sure her head stays in your elbow and she’ll be fine.”

With rusty but practiced ease, Emma transfers the baby into Killian’s hold, his shoulders tense at first until Roxana settles down. She stays asleep the whole time, her little lips smacking together as she turns her head into his chest. Killian chuckles in disbelief, his eyes rising to look at her. Emma smiles in turn, leaning her head up against his shoulder. 

“See?” she whispers. “Not so scary.”

And, as Emma watches him interact with the baby, she begins to realize that this moment means a lot more than just holding their friend’s child for the first time. Since coming home from the hospital, he’s fought with himself over the loss, not only of his brother, but of his own hand. She’s heard whimpers of pain a couple of times, seen him rub at the scars more often than that, and she assumes that he’s got phantom pains by the way he sometimes glances at his wrist. Try as she might, she knows that everything she does to assure him that he’s still the same snarky scallywag that he was - touching his stump as if his hand were still there, kissing his cheek and brushing his hair away when he feels the pain during sleep - it doesn’t really get to the root of the problem.

But here, holding little Roxana, she can see his psyche knitting itself back together. That, yeah, he can hold babies and make dinner and eventually sail a ship again and everything a normal man can do besides clap his hands together. He just needs to learn how to do it differently. Life goes on with him in it, and he might as well thrive.

(She’ll never tell him that she saw this coming. That she knew this is the exactly type of thing he needed. That she texted Robin, asking if it was okay to come over because Killian needed to get out of the house, needed something to brighten these gray winter days. He needed something to anchor himself, to give him hope in the future.)

“You’re a precious little lass, aren’t you?” he asks the baby quietly, totally entranced, allowing her small fingers to wrap around his pointer finger.

(For the briefest of moments, Emma lets the idea of Killian holding his own child, rocking them to and fro in order to soothe them on stormy nights, consume her.

And maybe the baby has her chin and his eyes, but that’s where that fantasy ends.)

(Yeah, he’s going to be fine.)

0000

Though he’s too stubborn to meet any sort of professional in the wake of the wreck, Killian does start opening up to her whenever something concerns him. Emma’s heard the story of the night of the wreck multiple times, each telling adding a little more detail. 

She acts as his sponge, soaking up all this information and cleaning up the mess in his mind. But she never gets squeezed out. It’s not like she can tell anyone else about it - it’s certainly not her secret to tell. So she keeps it all bottled up because if it’s off Killian’s shoulders, then what does it matter? At least he’s healing.

But the sponge loses its ability to soak up information, calls it quits when Jefferson convenes the crew of  _ Sea of Chaos _ at his house for an announcement. The second season airs in a couple days, and Emma hopes beyond hope that maybe - just maybe -  _ Sea of Chaos _ will go on. Even she and David, Jeff’s top confidantes in this matter since the beginning, have no clue as to what this meeting could be about.

The whole event has a different vibe than any of the other ones. From the get-go, it’s more solemn, which, when Emma thinks it over, makes sense. In the past two years, they’ve lost three crew members and both their ships. The two crews have been condensed to one, and everyone - from their surviving captain to the on-shore help - has lost a fraction of their livelihood.

It took some haranguing to get Killian to agree to coming. Emma promised him to stay by his side for the duration, as if she would be anywhere else these days.

(But she fought back equally. 

“You need to get out of the house, Killian,” she reminded him. “Sitting in here and moping isn’t good for anyone.”

“I’ve gotten out of the house,” he countered, pointing toward the front door. “We visited Robin and Regina. We went to your house for crew dinner just the other night.”

Emma groaned, rubbing her hands across her face. “You know that doesn’t count, you ass.”)

But there she is, by his side as promised, her hand wrapped around his elbow as Jefferson steps up on to his coffee table.

“Are you sure you haven’t a clue what’s going on?” Killian whispers to her, leaning down so his lips brush against her ear. The motion sends shivers down her spine, a smile rising on her lips as she shies away.

“No idea.”

Jefferson clears his throat. The crowd gathered, already quieter than normal, comes to complete silence.

“Due to recent events, the network has decided  _ Sea of Chaos  _ will take a hiatus,” he announces. It’s not like she hadn’t seen it coming, but Emma still feels her heart break a little bit. So much of her life these days she can attribute to this show. It seems like ages ago - Killian rushing out of Granny’s to help Liam alert the appropriate people as to their decision. She and Liam talking on the phone after arguing with Killian. It hasn’t been that long in reality, only about two months or so, since...well, since most everything changed.

“They have expressed interest in a third season,” Jefferson continues, looking each person in the crowd before him in the eye. **“** It would be shortened by half and we’d start filming next trawling season **.** At Killian’s behest,” he points to Killian, who blushes, nods, and gives a solemn wave to all the people who glance over at him, “we’re going to put it off indefinitely.” 

Over the din of the crowd’s groan, Emma turns on him and glares. “ _ You  _ knew about this?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t know he was going to tell everyone like this,” he whispers. “I merely told him I thought it would be in everyone’s best interests if we didn’t go on.” Next to them, little Roxana begins to fuss in Robin’s arms. Killian, probably anxious to get out of the spotlight, silently offers to calm her down and take the baby out of the room. Robin, being the tired parent of a newborn, gladly accepts the help. With a bounce in his step, Killian leaves.

“Now, now, that’s not the right sentiment,” Jefferson chides everyone. “The network has high hopes for syndication and if Captain Killian out there changes his mind, you all will  be my first calls.”

Even to Emma’s ears, that sounds like a good deal. And she has enough faith in Jeff to hold him accountable to his word, even if she doesn’t see Killian changing his mind at all. He no longer has to sleep facing away from the harbor, but it’s taken longer for him to stroll along the piers, let alone get on or in the water.

“So, as this is our last time together for a while,” Jefferson concludes, arms wide and inviting, “let us drink and be merry.”

Weak cheers come from the crowd as conversations break out and the get together tries to rebound from the somberness of their producer’s announcement. Jefferson claps his hands as everything kind of returns to normal before hopping off the table and approaching Emma.

“A little warning would’ve been nice,” she sarcastically greets him. 

Jefferson nods, his lips curling around his teeth and his steepled hands coming up to his mouth. “Emma Swan, I’m going to be straight with you,” he says quietly. Furrowing her brows, Emma steps closer, concern and curiosity getting the better of her. 

“They want to film this,” he says carefully.

Confused, Emma shakes her head because her friend’s not making sense. “Film what?” she inquires.

“The aftermath.” His eyes flit over her shoulder and out to the other room, where she knows Killian took the baby. “The mounted cameras got some footage before the _Jolly Roger_ went down, the network could easily get something from the hospital.” He pauses, letting Emma come to the conclusion on her own. “Viewers would eat this story up, you know that.”

“Story? **”** It’s not like she didn’t hear him the first time: she just can’t believe that any human being would even contemplate the idea of doing what Jefferson is suggesting. Emma looks over her shoulder to make sure Killian isn’t coming back. **“** Jeff, this is Killian. Your friend,” she whispers harshly **. “** His older brother died. Liam was the only family he ever had. He can barely look at the water, let alone get on a ship!”

“But…” Emma puts on her fiercest glare, one she imagine would adorn her face if Henry got arrested or if he came to tell her he accidentally got a girl pregnant. It’s scathing, giving her the inklings of a headache. Jeff sighs, relenting for the moment. “Would you at least ask him if he’d consider it?”

“No!” Insulting by the idea, Emma steps away with frustration before whirling back on him and pointing **.** “If you want him to do it, ask him yourself **.”** And then she shakes her head because _that is an even stupider-as-shit idea._ **“** Actually, don’t. He’s not doing it, Jefferson. Tell the network to shove it up their asses. Killian is a human being. A hurting and healing one, at that.” 

Jefferson starts to interrupt her. She cuts him off. “No. No filming if and until there’s another season and, as you said, that’s Killian’s decision.” With a sharp wave of her hand, Emma dismisses him. **“** Go.”

Proverbially tail between his legs, Jeff nods and goes off to play host for the rest of the party, leaving Emma to bite her lip and wonder if she did the right thing. It is Killian’s life, but she’s gone on and decided on a part - a pretty significant part - of his future without consultation. 

(She doesn’t have the right to do that, wouldn’t want somebody doing the same if the tables turned. Except for maybe Killian. Maybe.)

(Oh god, she’s in  _ deep _ .)

The sound of the door opening behind her breaks Emma from her reverie. She turns to see Killian coming back into the room, handing a napping Roxana off to her father. Spotting her, he sends a small smile her way and comes up to her, his arm curling around her shoulders. 

“Did I miss anything important?” he asks.

Emma opens her mouth, but pauses before saying anything. If she lies, he’ll never have to even know that pigs like the network executives and, to an extent, Jefferson himself exist. It’s not just her maternal instincts kicking in - she knows if this were Henry’s future, she wouldn’t tell him at all. Killian’s a grown man, owns a house and had a business, but she feels the strong need to protect him from the worst in life, especially after so much has happened in such a short timespan.

But then, she thinks back to how disappointed and upset he was when he found out she was looking for jobs without telling him. He’s still healing, still just getting back to some sense of normalcy. Now is certainly not the time to get into another argument like that. And that’s the more important factor in this situation.

So she settles on answering him honestly. “Apparently, the execs wanted a third season or a special or something,” Emma explains in a breath. 

Raising an eyebrow, Killian says, “But we don’t have any boats.”

“They wanted this.” She gestures around them, then directly at his chest. “They’ve apparently got some footage from the hospital, from the  _ Jolly Roger _ on that night.” Closing her eyes, Emma plays with a loose strand of hair. “They want to exploit you and the rest of the crew after losing Liam for money.”

“Excuse me?”

But she’s already shaking her head, her hands on his shoulders, sponging up any information and psychological trauma that might bubble up. “Don’t worry, I told him no,” she tells him.

“Swan.” There’s an undertone in his voice that makes her doubt her decision, but she pushes it away stubbornly.

“No, you are not arguing about this with me. It’s not right,” she says. “It’s not good form, right? I’m not going to let them punch you one last time just to make a quick dollar. Mulan and August and Robin and Scarlet, you all deserve better than that.” Letting her hands drag down his arms to entwine the one with his fingers and wrap the other around his stump, Emma smiles up at him. “No one moreso than you.”

His hand squeezes hers and he tugs her into his chest. He leans down as she presses up and throws her arms around his neck. “If it isn’t too wrong to say so,” he murmurs, swinging them back and forth a bit, “you are quite beguiling when you’re defending me.”

Emma rolls her eyes and pulls back a fraction. “Killian,” she moans playfully.

“The beautiful Emma Swan,” he chuckles lovingly. “My savior.”

She bites at her bottom lip before nervously asking, “So it’s okay that I prevented you and the rest of the crew from profiting off of your grief?”

“Swan, I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.”  Killian laughs again at her astonished expression, leaning to press a kiss to her forehead. “You’ve been making my decisions for me for the last two years, whether you knew it or not.”

“Huh.”

When she doesn’t answer further, Killian licks his lips in anticipation. “Does that make you feel powerful?” he asks. “Knowing you hold a man’s heart in the palm of your hand?”

“Yeah,” she says quietly. She barks out a laugh before catching herself and matching his gaze. “I kind of like it,” she admits. “Is that bad?”

“Far from it,” he assures her. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in long while, love.” Killian’s smile lights up the room, wide and bright, just like the smile she felt herself falling in love with all those months ago. 

Slowly but surely, Killian begins pulling her toward the edge of the room. More specifically, toward the door he’d disappeared behind with Roxana not too long ago. The door, she knows, that leads to the mudroom, which leads out of the house all together. “Do you think the lad could fend for himself tonight?” he asks conspiratorially. “I’d like to take you home and,” he pauses before allowing a smirk to take over his face, “thank you. Properly.”

She catches up to him and wraps her arms around him, backing him up against the wood of the door. Her hand lingers on the doorknob before gently turning it and nodding toward freedom.

“Take me away, sailor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are: the last official chapter of this story. There will be an epilogue posted next week, and there are a few one shots I need to finish writing in this universe, but for most intents and purposes, this is the end. I'll post a whole sappy thing with the epilogue next time, but I wanted to get this out there so you could prepare yourselves or your souls or something.
> 
> As I've said since the beginning, many many thanks to sotheylived, shipsxahoy, queen-icicle-fandom, and captainswanbigbang for all of the various and insundry things they've done during this whole process. Thank you, thank you, thank you.


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: they all live happily ever after. :) I figure it's the least I could do.  
> For the final time, thanks to queen-icicle-fandom, shipsxahoy, sotheylived, and captainswanbigbang for everything you all have done during this process. You guys are amazing. And to you, who's either been here since the beginning or jumped in along the way: thanks for sticking with it.

It’s takes a while to convince Killian to get back on a ship, even when it’s docked.

But when he does on an oddly warm day in February, Emma makes sure to reward him.

The sun is setting - another banner day in Killian’s long journey of recovery - on this Friday evening. Henry’s off at a sleepover with Phillip, so it’s just the two of them, enjoying each other’s company on the ship that brought them together. Thanks to profits from the show and donations from fans and community members, the _Jolly Roger II_ is just as sturdy as its predecessor. The little marks and stories the old ship held aren’t there, of course, but the thought behind it is wondrous. Killian still hasn’t had the courage to take it out for a spin, but Mulan and Robin assured her it ran just as well as the first one. And when Emma remembers that Liam wanted to rebuild the _Jewel_ before his death, she finds some sort of closure in the circle life has drawn around the Jones brothers.

She loves it. The _JRII_ makes Killian so happy and she adores that. She loves _him,_ almost as much as she loves this town _._ For the first time ever, she can’t leave something like this behind. She’s known what she’s going to tell him for a while. In all honesty, there was never really a question as to whether it would happen. It was just a matter of when once Emma realized that Storybrooke was home.

“We’re staying here,” she says softly, leaning up against the _Roger’s_ railing and trying not to show how much excitement lies under her skin.

“What?” Killian asks, utterly stunned. “But you said...Henry…” Emma nods, encouraging him to at least finish a sentence. His hand runs through his hair and he’s breathing in little pants of disbelief.  He points at her. “You said you’d go where there’s a job. A constant paycheck so you can care for the lad.”

She shrugs casually. “I’ll find a job,” she says. “I’ll ask the station to give me my job back.” Turning away from the warm colors that come from sunset, Emma looks Killian straight in the eye. There’s something so earnest in his gaze that he solidifies her decision, even if she struggles through putting her feelings into words. “I haven’t had a home in so long and when we moved here, I thought it was another stepping stone.” She shrugs a little and leans into him. “I didn’t realize it was the end of the path.”

“Emma.” He says her name as a question and an answer, a threat and a compliment. Killian leans into her, but doesn’t move any closer or show any intention of touching her.

So she does, taking his hand in both of hers as she scoffs. “Look, you know I’m a woman of action over words. So here’s me taking action.” Emphasizing her point, she shakes their entwined hands. “ You need me and Henry.” Killian chuckles, because they both know that, while what she’s said is true, there's so much more to it. “ Henry needs you. ” He gives her another look - smouldering eyes and the hint of a smirk on his lips - that makes her rolls her eyes. “ _I_ need you in my life,” she admits on a sigh.

“What happened to this –” he lets go and points to her, his hand waving about to encompass her body entirely, “and that –” he gestures to himself, smirking, “never gonna happen?”

Emma shrugs. “I’m like the ocean. One simple breeze and I can change my mind.”

“I don’t know whether to find that comforting or unnerving.”

Her laughter causes her to fall comfortably into his arms and Killian easily pulls her into his chest. “Yeah, I heard it too,” she says, sighing and relaxing into his embrace . “I run the camera, buddy, I can’t pull eloquent metaphors out of thin air like some people.”

She can feel his wide smile when he presses a kiss into her hair. “They worked on you, didn’t they love?”

“Don’t be so smug,” she scoffs, pulling back from his embrace to fully see his face .

That ridiculous grin is still there, growing wider by the second, if that’s even possible. He’s got mischief in his eyes. “Not smug, darling ,” he corrects her . “Victorious, perhaps, but not smug.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Aye,” he says dreamily. Killian’s hand comes up to brush at the few strands of hair a breeze has blown into her face. His fingers trail over her cheekbone and around behind her ear, where he lets the tips of his fingers trail down her neck. It’s loving, his movements, and it reflects the same emotion in his gaze and his soft smile. “And you love me for it, don’t you?”

She doesn’t answer him right away. Instead, she sends him one of his signature smirks and looks back out over the water. _Let him stew in my unanswer_ , she thinks. He knows her well enough by now. Better than anyone ever, she thinks.

He knows.


End file.
